Feverish
by Azumizai
Summary: Canada had no intention on getting sick. He also had never had the intention of being so invisible to so many people. Just what will happen to Matthew when two things he never intended on collide?
1. Ice Cream is Not for Breakfast

**Genre **: Drama, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship  
**Rating **: T for Possible mild swearing or suggestive themes  
**Disclaimer **: This fanfiction is set in a generalized universe. It is based off of the characters and my interpretations of them, so both anime and manga have been referenced. There might be _unintentional spoilers_. You have been warned. Also, _both country and character names used._  
**Characters** : Canada, and others mentioned. There are _no defined pairings_. However, if you wish to see something as a pairing, then be my guest.  
**Ownership **: I highly doubt Hetalia is mine. Yep. It isn't mine.

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Chapter One Summary **: A Certain country starts to realise that he is coming down with something. S'probably not that serious, eh? Well good thing he has his brother to distract him for the moment...

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- **Chapter 1 **- **Ice Cream is Not for Breakfast **- 

A certain blond-haired country rolled over in his bed as he found the world of dreams melting out of his grasp. A shudder and a sigh were the first sounds to pass his lips as a cold chill swept through his room. One violet eye peeked open, squinting hazily into the dim light of the early morn; it was then soon followed by the other one and the nation heaved a heavy yawn as he sat up in his bed and stretched.

This single movement was instantly recognized as a bad idea. So in a dire attempt to regain the bubble of heat he had been cocooned in for the past several hours, Canada snatched up the blankets and wrapped them about himself tightly once more.

Once that was accomplished; dimly, and tiredly, Canada fumbled at his nightstand, feeling for his glasses. After fitting them neatly on his nose, the nation glanced across the room to the red glow of his digital clock.

4:30am.

Matthew moaned and he flopped back onto his bed with a noise of frustration. The _last_ time he had gotten up and checked the time, it said it was 2 in the morning, and the time before that, 1 in the morning. And this, along with all those other times, Matthew had assumed it was a decent time to be getting up; _Not_ such an _unholy _hour in the morning. With another contained shiver, Canada glowered at nothing in particular, focusing on his pale dappled ceiling with a heavy note of distaste for the early morning hours.

As he berated himself for the next few seconds, a wet feeling slid across his cheek, then another, and another, a soft but rough feeling that continued on, soon distracting him from his thoughts. Canada turned with a shift of comforters, and faced the fuzzy white intruder.

"... Good morning Kuma," Canada said, his voice heavy with sleep, frustrations all forgotton, and he reached a hand to rub behind white soft ears. "Did I wake you?" He asked, as the bear pulled back and stopped licking his cheek.

"... Who?" The bear replied tilting his head to the side and he licked at Matthew's hand.

Matthew just could not be annoyed and he let loose a soft chuckle, sitting up and placing the bear in his lap. "Canada. Ca-Na-Da. Matthew, remember? I am the guy who feeds you," he awnsered stroking a soft white cheek.

"I know that," the bear said softly. "But _who _are _you?_"

Canada laughed softly and rubbed between Kumajirou's ears. "Canada. Do you think you can remember it today?"

"... Mmn... no."

Matthew let out a soft snuff of air from his nose and he continued to rub behind the bear's ears in a way that made the small being close his eyes in bliss. "You didn't answer my question." Matthew pointed out. "Did I wake you up?"

"No. I was already awake."

"Oh? Why are you up so early?" Canada asked, moving his stroking down the bear's back.

"You woke me up."

Canada stopped his movements and sighed. "I just asked if I woke you up, and you said no. Now you say I woke you up?"

"Yes. You woke me up before. I am still awake. You did not wake me up just now."

Canada blinked and he looked down at the ball of white fur. Had he woken up Kumajirou at one of the other times...? "Oh... I didn't realise. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up," he apologized automatically.

The bear shrugged seeming to be indifferent and he just, sat there and looked up at his owner with a quizzical glance.

"Are you hungry?" Canada asked, "I can make you something to eat." Matthew knew he most likely wasn't going to go back to sleep, and he was far too awake now anyway. Best make use of the time.

"Yes please." His head tilted, "...Who are you?"

Canada sighed and he levered out of the bed, ending his conversation with the poor confused bear, who just let out another 'who' when he answered his question for the final time.

Matthew shivered again, not enjoying the feeling of the cold air against his skin. It was grating and uncomfortable, and it made the hairs on his body stand on end in a prickle. Fitting his feet into his soft and warm slippers, he hoisted his bear into his arms and in front of himself. It was not even supposed to be that cold that day, and he was already shivery? Wasn't he supposed to be the great white north? Able to live in some of the worst climates in the world? Didn't he have one of the coldest recorded temperatures in all of north America? Didn't he? A little chill shouldn't effect him at all.

He slowly trudged to the kitchen, catching sight of the thermometer on the wall that recorded the outside temperature. 3 degrees Celsius. Not that cold at all, especially at that time of morning; and that time of year, even. Plus, his house was heated, and it wasn't like his bedroom or kitchen, or any other room for that matter, was directly exposed to the elements.

Canada deposited his pet bear onto the counter, and began to work on fixing him breakfast first. Which that morning consisted of : One tin of sockeye salmon, a few tablespoons of maple syrup, and a few heaping teaspoons of ketchup, topped off with half a can of white tuna. Matthew himself thought it was rather disgusting, but the bear seemed to adore this food like no other. As long as the bear ate, and ate happily, who was he to question?

Canada mashed it all together, and set it on the table for the bear to gobble up. He wrinkled his nose lightly, as he did every morning, on the enthusiasm of which the bear ate the fishy glorp. Well... At least it had maple syrup.

While Kumajirou ate his questionable breakfast, Matthew began to rummage through the cupboards, trying to locate something that he felt like eating. When he had first woken up, he thought he felt the growl of hunger teasing his stomach, but now he was sure that it was just a twist of discomfort. Everything was looking particularly unappetizing. Even the thought of pancakes, bacon and maple syrup seemed... a little _too much_ for the die-hard maple fan.

He sighed, and sat at the table. "S'too early to eat," he mumbled, and he snatched yesterday's newspaper off of the table.

As the morning dragged on, and Matthew fixed his hungry bear another serving of the disgusting fish goo, he was starting to come to the conclusion that maybe he was coming down with something. He hadn't yet managed to brake himself out of the dopey grog that filled just the back of his eyes, nor the slight heaviness that weighed down at his wrists and ankles. He also felt ever so slightly queasy, and he was sure there was a slight tingle at the back of his throat when he swallowed. Not to mention, he was currently bundled up on the couch, reading a newspaper, still shivering against the cold.

Groaning lightly, the nation heaved himself off of the cushions, glancing outside as the sun began to peek out of the horizon, and migrated to the bathroom. "Am I coming down with something?" Matthew questioned aloud, putting the back of his hand to his forehead.

Knowing that was a fruitless effort, and some shuffling, he retrieved the thermometer from the medicine cabinet. Right after that, he exited the bathroom with it dangling from his mouth, and moved them to fetch at least _something_ to eat. Kumajirou decided then to follow him around the kitchen, his owner now raising intrigue.

When Matthew had just pressed down the lever for toast, he heard a beep from the device that was jammed under his tongue. He took it out, shook it, and squinted at the number.

Kumajirou's head tilted. "What?" came the solitary word.

"... 38.3 degrees," Canada said with a sigh. However, he was unsurprised by these results.

"Fever," came a one-worded response.

"Yeah, I'll say so. A low-grade one though. I don't feel _that_ terrible," he admitted, putting down the thermometer and filling up the teapot with boiling water. "I'll take something for it, and it'll go away in time for the meeting."

After those results, Kumajirou continued to watch him for a moment as he moved through the kitchen, as if he was deciding something for himself. He gauged his owner's movements to be sure that he was indeed alright, and after a moment of doing so, he shrugged, and wandered off to go curl back into his bed and snooze. Obviously he saw it as a non-threatening issue. Sleep was more important.

Canada was then left to complete his morning by himself. It was about 8:00am now, and he wasn't particularly happy that he had already been up for two and a half hours, when it _should_ have only been an hour at the _most_. Of course, that, mounted with the fact that he now was confirmed to have a low-grade fever. Oh well… Life could never be perfect, eh?

Fully clothed, in a comfortable red hoodie with deep red sleeves, he flopped onto the couch and put his feet on the table, emitting a groan with his hand on his head. Did he _have_ to go to the meeting? Couldn't he stay home and be done with the bickering and the ranting, the loud ideas and the randomness. Sure, they were all very nice people, and very nice to be around, but he didn't feel he had the _gusto_ that day to deal with it all.

As he mulled over not going, contemplating if anyone would even _notice_ his absence. It wasn't like they talked to him half the time; or at _all_ really. He'd be lucky if someone direcly addressed him. So if he went, or didn't, they probably wouldn't have noticed, unless they had a plan to talk to him in the first place.

That thought was mushed out of his head by feeling altogether guilty that he even _thought _about not going to the important meeting that they held. What if it was important? Even if he had a slight cold, what if he missed it on a day where he'd be needed? That wouldn't be good at all, and it certainly didn't settle well in his Canadian hea-

The phone suddenly rang.

He blinked, his thoughts cutting short. The phone hardly _ever_ rang. Unless it was his boss or something, and that wasn't particularly often either.

So, with a stretch, Canada lifted the phone off the hook, and greeted in a much more tired voice than he meant to, "Good morning, Matthew Williams here."

_"Oi! Matty! S'me, your heroic brother, Alfred!"_ came a bubbly and always exuberant voice. There was a pause, _"Did I just wake you up, bro? You sound tired."_

"Good morning Alfred, and no, I've been up for a while now. What do I have the honour of receiving your phone call for this morning?"

_"I was wondering if I could borrow a ride to our meeting today, Matt,_" Canada's elder brother quickly replied, getting straight down to business.

"Eh? Why do you want me to give you a ride there, is there something wrong with your car?"

"_Nope!"_ Alfred cheerfully replied. He continued on to explain his reasoning before his brother could question it, _"Because you know, I want to put in a good image, huh? The whole cutting down on emissions thing, I want to be a good role model for the whole world!"_

"... By getting a ride in my car?"

"_Yep! I figured, you're a nice guy, and you'd let me, and I also figured that car pooling lessens the emissions, ya know._"

Canada blinked. Huh. That actually was sound reasoning, he was impressed. Matthew felt a smirk tweak the corner of his mouth and he smiled. "Sure, I'd be glad to give you a ride to the meeting this morning. But can you also do me a favour Alfred?"

_"What would that be?_"

"Can you drive me to the next meeting? It'd still be carpooling, and it'd be nice not to drive for once."

There was a pause as America mulled that idea over. "_Sure! Why not! Sounds like a deal. I'll pick you up tomorrow morning at...?"_

"8:30. Speaking of which," Canada said, glancing at the clock, "I better go now to pick you up. I'll see you soon."

_"Okie dokie bro!_" and the line went dead.

Canada smiled to himself, suddenly feeling pretty important to be remembered by his brother, and forgot entirely about his tired and sickly feeling. With a cheer brought back to his mood, he quickly took some light medication to curb the edge off the fever (and hopefully be rid of it entirely) and moved to get his shoes and coat on.

While he did so, he called upstairs, hand on the rail, "Kuma! I'm going to leave you home today! I left out some food for you, and you know how to open the fridge anyway so make sure you have some lunch and supper, okay?"

He got a call back. "Who?"

That confirmed that the bear had heard him, and was only asking who was the owner of the instructions.

"Canada! Now be good!"

"Okay!"

And with that, Canada quickly left to pick up his elder brother.

It wasn't hard to get to his place, they did live extremely close to one another, so the time and distance wasn't much of a sacrifice at all to the drive. Surprisingly, when he got there, America was already outside, waiting for him at the curb of his own driveway. He gave a wave when Matthew pulled in front of the driveway.

But when Canada stopped the car to let America get in the passengers, the elder country strode up and opened the driver's door.

"Get out Matthew," he stated with a cheerful lilt to his voice, expression matching.

"... Huh?" Canada said, his eyebrow raising.

America continued to look at him cheerfully, thumbing for Canada to get out of the car.

It took a few seconds more of this before Canada unbuckled and he got out of the vehicle. America went past him and plopped down in the drivers and he pointed to the passengers. "Well... what are you waiting for? Get in!"

Canada, thoroughly confused, only complied on the basis that America would probably drive off if he didn't get in the car right away. The moment he was buckled and fastened into his seat, and the car's engine started, did he dare question what was going through his brother's head.

"Um... why are you driving...?"

" 'cause you let me, duh."

"... Because you told me to get out. Why did you want to drive?" Canada reworded.

"Oh!" Alfred replied with a smile. "That's what you mean. I wanted to go pick up some breakfast, and I realised you probably didn't know how to get there. And being the awesome brother that I am, I thought that maybe I could drive us to work this morning. It's like killing two birds with one stone!"

Canada looked at his brother, and snuffed an amused air out of his nose and rest his head back on the seat. "Excellent thinking," he mused.

"Want something?" Alfred asked as they approached whatever destination was in store.

"... Well I don't want a hamburger for breakfast, if that's what you're asking."

"Pfft. No. I had that _yesterday_. Geeze Matt, get with the times. We're going to a coffee shop that just opened near us, actually. It has coffee, tea, donuts, sandwiches, soups, a whole whack load of delicious breakfast goodness."

"Actually, I'm not feeling particularly good tod-"

"Oh! You like hot chocolate, right? They have this really good hot chocolate, and I'm sure you can dump some of your maple syrup in there. They have so many combinations. They even have this small ice-cream section. _So _good. I had this cookie dough ice-cream that was to die for. I think they had this maple flavoured one too. Sorta dubious about trying that. Maybe I'll get you to try that as an experiment."

Experiment... What was he talking about? "Alfred, I said, no thank you, I'm not feeling one-hundred perce-"

"I think I'll get a coffee, black... mmn... a breakfast sandwich. What about you?"

Canada took a breath, looked at his brother and opened his mouth to speak, daring him to interrupt him just one more time. "I do not think I will have anything, thank you for the offer, Alfred." He finally managed to get out, stiffly, but politely.

His brother then produced a pout that no full grown country should ever have the right to produce; especially a country of his calibre. "Aww, Matty," his brother moaned childishly, as he parked the car, "You know it's rude to refuse. And I don't offer that often at all."

Matthew sighed. "I know, I probably should just agree to a hot chocolate or something. But I'm not fe-"

"Then it's settled!" Alfred exclaimed and he then yanked Canada out of the car with him and to the coffee shop before Matthew could utter a single word more.

Why did he even _bother_ sometimes?

Canada found himself in a short line-up with his brother, and again, before he could even object to anything, he found a hot chocolate that smelled vaguely of maple shoved in his hands, along with a _large _breakfast sandwich and a donut. He immediately moved to object, "Alfred I don't need this mu-"

"Oooh! Should we get ice-cream too...?"

"Alfred." Matthew scolded, "Ice-cream is _not_ for breakfast," he sternly stated, adjusting the food in his arms.

"Aw... You're no fun. You're always such a spoil sport. Did you inherit that from England or something?" he pouted.

He was met with a stern look. This was something he wasn't going to budge on.

"Okay..." the American nation sighed disappointedly.

After a few more moments of the other country deciding on something that wasn't ice-cream, America then slapped down a few bills on the counter, gathered his change and walked out the door with his own breakfast. Which consisted of a large coffee, two breakfast sandwiches, and a box of donut holes.

Canada followed, having failed in his mission to not get anything, and just plopped down in the passenger's seat with a sigh. Looking at the food in his lap, the queasy feeling in his stomach started to return. He already _had_ tea and toast for breakfast.

Alfred sat down too, but didn't buckle up his seatbelt or start the car. He began to unwrap one of the sandwiches and he shoved a large bite into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully on the deliciousness that was invading his mouth.

Canada wasn't surprised that America would want to eat first, so he just popped open the lid of his hot chocolate and sniffed it. Liquid would be fine for now. He was feeling the shivers come on again, and something that could heat him from the inside out would be nice. He paused. Wait a minute... _Wow_, it really _did _smell like it was maple-infused. With that, he decided to take a tentative sip. At the very least it would be warm...

"Oh... now _that's _nice," Canada commented with a blissful sigh. "It's not too sweet at all. And mmm, it's real maple flavour. Not artificial syrup flavour. Real maple. Thanks."

America swallowed his third bite and smiled at his brother toothily. "Told ya it was awesome." He wiped his face on his sleeve. "And you're welcome."

"You did indeed," Canada laughed and he took another drink from it, feeling the warmth bubble down and temporarily quelling the aching queasiness that hung at the base of his stomach.

Due to his brother's request (nagging), he ate about half of the sandwich, but didn't touch the donut. He told America that he'd finish that up during the break, then probably have a late lunch. Honestly, the queesy feeling was still there, and while he hadn't upset it yet, he wasn't about to chance it by eating too much. America, on the other hand, cleared _all _of his breakfast off, and seemed disappointed that there wasn't any more left, but surprisingly, he didn't ask Canada for his leftovers. Instead, he started the car.

"Let's get that tomorrow too, okay?"

"Sure." Canada smiled, feeling noticed and important, and he leaned back in the chair. With a yawn, he fitted his half-full cup of maple-chocolate into the cup holder, and leaned back into the soft seat of his car.

He was vaguely aware, a few minutes later, of America commenting on why his car wasn't red and white like his flag, and why it was such a boring colour like black. Matthew didn't really care... Canada shrugged softly in reply and he felt himself dropping off...

The next thing he was barely aware of was a hand on his shoulder shaking him softly. "Oi..." Came a word fading in and out. "Oi..."

"Mm..mmn...?" Canada hummed, shifting slightly.

"... Hey... Oi... wake up..." The shaking got a tiny bit harder, but it was still gentle. "...Don't make me honk the horn... I'll do it..."

Canada then heaved a yawn, sucking in air as he stretched and he finally opened his eyes and looked at his brother. "Mmn... yeah?"

America was looking at him with a tilted expression, and a slightly confused look. "When did you get up this morning? You like, fell asleep almost instantly in the car, we're already here you know."

"Huh...?" He blinked and looked around. Woah! They were! And it was an hour and a half drive! How did he manage _that_? "Woah... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude and just sleep like that. I woke up a little too early this morning and I couldn't get back to sleep I guess..." He rubbed the back of his head. "Sorry."

America's expression morphed into a lop-sided grin and he then mussed Canada's hair. "Ah, think nothing of it. T'wasn't rude. I was just curious, s'all. Come on, lets get going before we're late, or before you fall asleep again."

Canada nodded, and he climbed out of the car, stretching.

America had already met up with England as they walked in and Matthew fell back into a pool of obsurity as America walked in and didn't look back. It didn't pain the Canadian in the slightest. He was used to it, and so he wasn't surprised when it inevitably happened. At the very least, Alfred had paid attention to him long enough to give him a surprisingly nice morning.

When he pushed open the double-doors of the large building, Canada felt a weight tug at his wrists and ankles again, and a shiver ran back up his spine. Whatever it was that he had, was still there nagging at the corner.

Canada paused, and shook it off.

Surely he'd be just fine.

That was his last thought as he moved to the large conference room to take his seat among the other great nations.

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Author's Notes** : Hey! This is my first Hetalia Fanfiction. Sorry that the chapter has such a slow beginning, but this is just setting up a story (not too long of one, I hope) that will delve into more facets when it concerns Canada's complex situation and character.

Also, for those who don't know:  
Matthew = Canada,  
and Alfred = America.

I know that probably 90 percent of you already know that because you are all very smart people. But I know that I didn't know that when I first got into the fandom, and it helped me when it was put down. So there you go! :3

I also apologize for any mistakes. I don't know 100% of the facts of Hetalia, and this is more about the CHARACTER side of things, rather than the COUNTRY side of things.

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**  
Chapter Two Preview**: With Breakfast now settled into Canada's stomach... and the feeling that he might _indeed_ be coming down with something... How will this situation be delt with? Especially when he's concidered invisible?

Thanks for reading! Please read and review!


	2. Bloody Keel Over for all I Care

**Ownership** : I didn't own this series when I wrote the first chapter. Funny. I still don't own it.  
**Important Note** : ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down a nation in question. This is based off of characterizations, and not the countries involved. Thanks very much.

**Chapter Two Summary** : The unavoidable conclusion would come to Canada was that he was sick. The problem was, how to deal with it. Another person notices... but it doesn't QUITE turn out right.

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**- Chapter 2 - Bloody Keel Over for all I Care - **

Matthew took his place around the massive conference table, and glanced around it. He noticed that several countries were already there; such as China, Japan, Germany and Italy. Of course, his brother and England were there as well, as he saw them come in, followed by France.

Canada was quiet as he waited patiently in his seat for the meeting to start. He looked idly at his folded hands in his lap, and listening to snippets of the conversation America and England were having in an effort to ignore a sick feeling that was growing at the base of his stomach.

Apparently, America was ranting and raving about his awesome breakfast, and how awesomely heroic it was and how it was ten million times better than anything England could have made for him. The only responses he was getting from the elder nation were some annoyed dismissive grunts as he was doing his best to ignore America. By just sipping his tea, focusing on it alone, and massaging a tick that was forming at the corner of his eye as the nation went on and on... and on...

Matthew rudely listened to the conversation for a while longer, but it soon migrated away from the breakfast to something else; noticeably having nothing to do with himself. Not a single mention. Canada glanced at the table. Oh, he wasn't surprised, he shouldn't be surprised; though he never failed to feel _something_ press at him when his own brother seemed to skip over his existence.

He still let loose a sigh. It would be nice if, once, just once, he'd mention him without prompting first. Just... one...

Matthew leaned back in his chair and gave a grunt. His stomach was beginning to do the occasional flip. Though he didn't yet feel nauseous, he was afraid that's what it was going to turn into. So in another effort of distraction from his aches and pains, he wondered if it was okay that he just left Kumajirou at home like that.

Well, they _have_ been going to much longer meetings recently, he remembered, and he always felt just terrible about holding the bear all day in his arms or in his lap. Kuma wasn't a country, so he just sat there, and especially because his owner was _Canada_, that meant that his chances of being noticed himself was slim to none.

_Oh_, he thought, while trying to stretch out the heaviness that still hung in his limbs, _I wonder what It'd be like if Russia was the one that owned Kumajirou instead..._ The mental image of that alone amused Canada greatly. He let loose a chuckle, picturing his poor bear in the arms of Russia instead. Well, at least he'd be noticed...

Speaking of Russia, the world's largest nation finally arrived at the conference, stepping into the room with the air of simple confidence that he always maintained. He surveyed it quietly with the near-constant child-like smile of his, then deposited himself in the nearest chair, and folded his hands upon the table neatly.

A few countries spared glances and light greetings towards him, before turning back to themselves, or to conversations with others.

"Ah," Russia commented instantly, "what a comfortable chair," he said that to no-one other than himself. "I think I must have sat in this chair before. It's very comfortable."

Underneath, Canada was shaking, and with curled fists he trembled under the weight of the large nation. H-hey! He was sitting in the chair already!

The shock of being sat upon by someone so large off his ability to speak properly for the moment and he only managed a light whispering squeak, "R..r...russia... get off..."

Russia continued to sit there hands folding on the table top, smiling at nothing particular as god-knows-what went through his mind.

"R... russia..." he wheezed, trying to shift now. "G... Get off."

Still no response, the large country was focusing on something, or someone else, with a dark chuckle under his breath.

Matthew managed to un-wedge one of his arms from under the man and he started to, the best he could, tap at Russia's back. "Rus-sia..." He managed out. "Russia.. get off. I'm... a-already in the chair... Russia..." He shifted again. "... Get off... Please..."

It was starting to _hurt_, he had been sat on by Russia before, and yeah, that hurt too, but this hurt more. Maybe it was because he wasn't sitting in the chair properly in the first place, so Russia's added weight was just _grinding_ Matthew's thighs into the corner of the chair.

"Russia..."

Ivan stiffened, and looked around, baffled. Was someone talking to him? He thought he heard a whisper of some sort addressing his name. Someone had tapped him too... But when he had glanced behind him by turning his head a fraction, he saw nothing and no-one. Nobody was there. How odd.

After a moment of questioning the strange occurrence, Ivan shrugged then went back to whatever it was he was doing before. By this time, Canada's legs felt like they were going numb and Matthew swallowed and had to decide to be more direct about his approach. He could not very well be crushed to death by the country.

Not only would that be embarrassing, but probably a somewhat rude statement against Russia's character. Or something.

"R... Russia!" He finally managed to get out.

_That_ got Ivan's attention and the large Russian man leapt off of the chair when he heard that coupled with the short-following, "Get. OFF."

Russia turned slowly and looked towards the chair with an unreadable, almost emotionless, expression.

"Who are you?"

Canada was shaking, and rubbing at his thighs furiously. He froze when the cool words dripped off of Russia's tongue. He looked slowly up at the large nation and he swallowed. The discomfort in his legs and the sudden relief was all forgotten the moment he looked at Russia.

He responded thickly, "Canada... Matthew..."

"Ah, Matvey," The Russian confirmed, nodding once before, roughly grabbing Matthew by the back of the hoodie, heaving him out of the chair and depositing him carelessly beside it.

Startled, Canada leaned back into the wall to regain his balance, and to hold some of his composure. Was Russia in a bad mood that morning? The movement had startled him, but not as much as the shaded out unreadable expression Russia was giving him. It was a far harsher reaction than would have been typical expected. Even if it _was_ Russia.

Canada suddenly felt like he was being shoved under a microscope by the large man. He was being examined for something, and the gaze didn't hold any resemblance to the one that spoke 'to be one with him'. No... It felt that whatever Matthew had done, coupled with whatever it was that was wrong with Ivan, darker thoughts were at play, and the man obviously was contemplating what to do with the younger country.

Canada didn't want to find out.

Stupidly, Canada began to speak, glancing at the chair that he was just in, "That's uh... my..." The words died in his throat at the slight change of Russia's expression. "... Uh... I'm going to sit over there..." He corrected, gesturing vaguely off to the last free chair in the room.

Russia's face lit up pleasantly, he plopped right back down in the chair, sans Canada. "What a good idea Matvey!" He praised, all the ill feelings that were present before, were gone now. "Next time," He lectured, "Remember that _I_ was sitting in the chair first, da?"

Matthew swallowed, nodded, turned and quickly moved to seat himself down between Germany and his brother, America. He stole a moment's glance of Russia, to be sure that there wasn't any residual anger. Whatever that episode had been about, was hidden away again, because the Russian was sitting just as he had been before, as if the encounter never had happened.

Sometimes being as forgettable as he was worked in his favor as a survival tactic. Because he could lay low in plain sight.

It took a few moments though for Matthew to completely get over the encounter and move back into normal thought and the things that were more at hand than Russia's irritable mood. He rubbed at his legs for a while, removing the tingling that rattled all the way up them. When the numbness and itching finally went away, he let loose a smalls sigh of relief, and finally managed to relax.

It was good timing too, because that's when silence was call so they could all begin.

- - -

The meeting itself was uneventful. It started normally, a few countries proposed what they assumed needed to be done, and other proposed their own ideas on the matters at hand. A white board stood up front, and it was easy to see that Alfred was itching to be up there, scribbling all over it with his heroic ideas.

While America was holding onto a stack of paper, all of which had some scrawl or scribble on them about some great and heroic idea that he had, Canada himself found he wasn't in the mood to toss out any of his own thoughts or ideas. Instead, he listened intently to the meeting as it went ton, scribbling and jotting down notes here and there, circling things he questioned, and writing down small ideas that he'd attempt to propose later on.

The meeting wore on, as usual, thought America was finally at the stand, and in the attention of all the countries now as he began to jabber on about his new, improved, and ten times more heroic idea than the last one he had proposed. Something about a super train that encompassed the globe entirely, or something to that effect.

As his brother jabbered on and on about useless details that only highlighted the effectiveness it gave his own nation, Matthew put down his pen and stopped writing. The source of the queasiness was now too clear for Matthew. The breakfast sandwich he had eaten a few hours ago felt like a brick at the base of his stomach. Just sitting there and rotting. At least, that's what it felt like.

He had to put a hand to the spot and breath evenly, trying to clear away the feeling. Of all the symptoms of being sick, feeling nauseous or having pain to the stomach ranked as Canada's number one least favorite.

He remembered, long ago, he vowed he'd never let himself become so sick that he'd have to throw up. That in itself illustrated how much he detested it. He'd much rather have a week of sore throats, or runny noses, or even a plugged sinus over that. But, he was starting to believe that sheer willpower wasn't going to stop it this time.

Taking a few shallow breaths, swallowing deeply and trying to gulp down ice water to quell the flips his stomach made, Canada was coming to the realization that it just wasn't going to go away on it's own.

When came the queasiness... Always followed the dizziness.

He wavered on the spot, feeling his equilibrium was pushed askew by the tumbling in his stomach. It was almost too hard to focus. But, Canada did share something with his brother.

It was the thing that made him a country in the first place, a thing that earned him the title of a hockey nut, and something that he used from time to to time for his own advantage. Sheer stubbornness. He decided with willpower to focus on something else completely, in an attempt to beat out his stomach.

And this is what he came in on when he moved his attention back : His brother, gesturing wildly with a wooden pointer, hitting a picture of the map of the world in some attempt to prove some far-fetched idea.

"If we make this train that goes all the way around the world," America explained, "and all across every country, then that'd cut down the cost of fuel for air travel by the millions! Billions! And think of all the fuel that'd be saved!" He announced, proudly.

England took to responding to the nation, looking at America over the rim of his own notebook, tapping his pen against it's sheets. "Pray, tell us how we're going to be paying for all this? A country-wide transit system is expensive enough, and inter-continental transit system is extremely expensive for even the most wealthy, but one that _encompasses_ the whole _globe_? Where the bloody hell would we get the funds for that?"

America frowned, tapping at something he wrote before, shaking his head. "I told you, we'd be saving millions and billions of dollars on this, the savings alone would pay for it."

"Alfred," France then spoke out with a twirl of his wrist. "Are you not aware of... the fact that it would take_ un billion de _dollars."

"... I just _said_ we'd be saving _billions_ of dollars..."

Canada shook his head , surprised to be finding himself speaking out and correcting Alfred. "Un billion de, means trillion. Not Billion," he explained, using one hand on the table to hold himself steady.

Silence. Nobody looked at Matthew.

"Non, l'Amerique," France spoke out, "In English, it means a 'trillion'. It will take trillions of dollars to pay for that. And for what? A form of travel that takes longer? People will not waste the time, and the money expenditure would be so grand, that I do not think it'd be worth it in the end. Especially if it was not used."

Canada sank slightly in his seat, glancing at America to gauge his response to that. He caught a mumble of, "If you meant trillion, then why did you even say billion..." Alfred then cleared his throat. "Anyway! This is my suggestion, and I want more countries to respond to it than just England and France. Anyone else? Anyone?"

Matthew moved to raise his hand, but Germany, who sat beside him, stood up, and thumped his hands on the table. "I think you need have thought a little _more_ about this foolish proposal of yours. It's a waste of time, money and space, and can you _please_ tell us how this train will be _fueled_."

Alfred's mouth opened to speak, his finger in the air, but after a second or so of silence, his hand dropped to his chin, and he stroked it thoughtfully. "I hadn't thought of _that_ part yet."

Germany let out a growling frustrated sigh, seating himself back into his chair.

The room erupted into loud discussions over America's proposed ideas. Some for it, some against it, some neutral. Others were trying to find the pros and cons, and others were despairing on how much each country would owe if such a thing would be built. Who'd pay for it? Who'd build it? Which countries would it be installed in. Where? Why?

All of this, and more consumed the room in loud banter, while Canada leaned forward, hugging his arms around himself as his stomach painfully twisted. He felt green. He felt really sick. He wondered for a vague moment in the back of his head if he was starting to turn green.

Luckily for him, Germany, with a voice full of frustration and headaches, shouting out that they needed to call a recess, because the whole group of them were getting too loud, and too rowdy for the German's liking. This reasoning was met by agreement by many countries.

The _moment_ Germany called the recess, Canada felt a sharp flip that indicated that if he didn't do something about it now, his stomach was going to do it _for him_. He shot up and out of his seat, and dashed out of the room as quickly as his legs could possibly take him. Not caring if someone noticed, if anyone at all.

He skittered down the hallway, hand to his mouth and aimed straight for the bathroom. So close was his timing, he nearly didn't make it. Nearly. But he made it just in time to lock and close the door behind him in one fell swoop, before falling to his knees and violently heaving.

He was there for a short time, and 'fun' had to be the very last word on Matthew's list to describe it. It only continued to remind him of why he'd rather be feeling _anything _else at that moment.

He pulled back, resisting the urge to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, and he breathed heavily, feeling like such a child as tears rolled down his face. He sucked in breaths after he flushed the toilet, sitting on the cold bathroom floor, reveling in the swell of relief that washed over him. Any and all feelings of nausea was gone. Perhaps that was the only upside to all of that.

He remained sitting on the floor for a few minutes longer, controlling his breaths and wiping away tears that dribbled down his cheeks, and bubbled at the corners of his eyes.

A few minutes after that, Matthew got up, and began to destroy the evidence of what happened before he felt too sick to put in the effort. It was off how his compulsiveness to not intrude into anyone's daily loves arouse even in this sort of situation. Though perhaps he was using it as an excuse to forget the fact he _had_ just gotten sick in the conference hall bathroom.

A short time passed, and the bathroom was spick, span and sparkling. Matthew himself was chewing on a piece of mint gum that he had found in his back pocket. He sat back against the doorway, his hands ribboned through his hair, and he properly assessed his situation.

Back of his hand to his forehead. He couldn't tell, but perhaps he was a little clammy? Might've had something to do with the fact he just emptied his stomach. He felt warm, but then again, it was impossible to tell one's own temperature just by putting their own hand on their own forehead. He noted how that distinct heavy feeling was still hanging on his limbs, and how he wanted nothing more than to curl up and go back to sleep.

Despite still feeling a little off kilter, he was pleased to announce to himself that he no longer was feeling sick to the stomach.

Feeling a bit better, albeit wobbly, Canada got up and moved to open the door and return to the conference hall too...

He stopped. What he was met with when he opened the door was a very disgruntled and angry little British man. England, to be exact.

Matthew gave a start and took a few steps back, he certainly had _not_ expected someone to be standing _right there_. Especially when there were other bathrooms down the massive hallway that could be used.

"There you are," Arthur grated towards Matthew, taking a heated step forward. "Why the bloody hell did you just run out of the room like that?"

Matthew froze. Wait... What? What did he do? Why was England mad? Yes, he had run out of the room, and even if it was surprising that someone had noticed, why would they be _mad_ about that?

Not waiting for an answer, England took another step toward Canada, who took another step back. "Think you could hide in a bathroom, eh?" He accused, glowering.

Canada was completely and terrible confused. It was paining his poor Canadian heart to know he did something to piss someone off... But not know _what_ exactly he did _to_ piss someone off. His mind was rattling of, billions of miles an hour trying to come to some conclusion for England's harsh attitude. He wavered slightly, hand gripping the counter.

England's tone died a little. "Just what in the blazes are you doing in here?," came the next question.

Matthew stuttered, unable to come to an answer because his mind just locked up. He wavered again and reaffirmed his grip on the granite. It was that movement that caused the British man to pause.

England glanced about the bathroom, as if searching for something, made a movement as if he took a breath through his nose before glancing at Canada with his eyes narrowed, examining him. Canada just looked back at him worriedly, unable to find the right words that would appease the man.

More silence passed, and Arthur's expression then turned to confusion, he looked oddly at Matthew then. Stepping forward, England slipped off his gloves, and reached out towards him. Matthew instinctively closed his eyes, taking a breath, but felt a cool hand cup his chin for a second, then slide to his forehead, pausing there for a moment.

England pulled back, startled. "You have a fever."

He said that with a restrained tone, as if he was trying to maintain his previous frustration, but the obvious sudden worry for his own child was pushing through that wall.

"I... I do?" Canada lamely said finally, opening his eyes and putting the back of his hand to his own forehead.

"Of _course_ you do you foolish child." England snatched down Canada's arm lightly. "And you won't be able to tell just by doing that. Believe me, you have a fever."

He put his hand back on Matthew's forehead to double check, nodding and pulling his head back, lighting chewing on his bottom lip.

"Oh... Oh..." Canada just barely managed.

"Well." England's hands went to his hips. "You definitely _must_ have a fever if you aren't trying to make a show of yourself. What with you did last time and all."

England put a hand on Matthew's shoulder. "Come on, let's get you laying down."

Matthew allowed himself to be lead out of the bathroom, but asked, "Show of myself...?"

"Oh don't play idiot with me Alfred," the British man said stiffly, trying to still hold the air of annoyance, "The last time you were ill you were all up in our faces, whining and moaning on how it was the end of the world because your heroic self was going to perish. It was a bloody cold! No worse than a child's sniffles!"

Alfred? Wait a minute. Canada pulled to a stop. "Wait... I'm not-"

"Don't stop!" England ground out, and he started to pull him again. "Take it to you to act the complete opposite in this kind of situation. You whine and moan about nothing, but you stay quiet about a real fever. My goodness, I have no clue wherever you learned such a backward way of thinking. Certainly not from me."

"But England," Canada attempted again, staggering slightly, "I'm not-"

"You _are_ ill, Alfred," England said sternly and he pulled Matthew into a room of the building. "No point arguing in it now. You can barely stand as it is."

As a side note of reference, Canada always thought the conference building, well this particular one, was rather lovely. Not only was it large and ornate, and felt like a grand hall for kings, but it housed many small bedrooms; which were commonly used for countries to stay over a night in when it was too much of a hassle to make constant travel; countries like Russia, Germany and Italy as examples.

This meant to England he had a safe, soft, warm place to deposit his ill child.

Who was yes, his child, and yes, very much ill. But no, he was not the one he was assuming Matthew was.

"England," Canada tried to correct, but finding his words weren't getting in edgewise. "I'm Ca-,"

"_Sit_," Arthur pressed and he forced Canada down in a sitting position on the bed. "Don't stand there, and be quiet, will you. I've heard enough of your yapping to last me the whole week."

Canada did as he was told. Hopefully... England would soon realize that he was indeed not America, and was in fact Canada. His _other_ son. It wasn't like they were identical or anything. They weren't _that_ similar in appearance, or actions, clothing or policies...

When he sat down, he started to realize just how terrible he really felt. No longer queasy, but in general, he just started to become more aware of his physical condition. Perhaps that's what England had noticed, and was what drew him to check in the first place? Matthew leaned forward, his equilibrium off.

England watched him with a concerned expression as he perched on the bed beside him. "Now," Arthur said as he sat, "Let me check once more."

A cool hand pressed again to Canada's forehead, causing Matthew to instinctively close his eyes, and lean against the touch. The hand remained in place for a few moments, long enough for the cool feeling to be on the brink of fading away; then England withdrew.

"You certainly have a fever. I don't have a thermometer, but by my judgment, it's average, not terrible," England reported quietly, his annoyed edge ebbing away.

He then gestured. "Alright, lay down. The meetings and activities are going to run all day, so lay for a while and see how you feel in a little while." His voice then turned with a harder edge, "If you don't feel like you are up to any of it, then _do not_ push yourself. Stay here and sleep. I'll arrange a ride for you home at the end of the day if need be."

Matthew nodded, easing himself down into a laying position on the bed.

"But... Arthur, can I first say that ... I'm not- "

England stood sharply and glowered down at him. "Not a word out of you. Stay here. I'll check on you in an hour."

"Y... yessir..."

England softened again, mentally berating himself for the harsh tone, and forcing himself to soften again. He leaned, carefully plucking Canada's glasses off his nose, and folding them neatly. He placed them on the nightstand, and pulled the comforter and sheets up to Canada's chin, tucking him in softly.

"Alright... Do you need anything before I leave you alone?"

"No..."

"Alright." He straightened, "I will return here in one hour," Arthur gestured to the clock hanging on the wall. "Alright? I'll check up and see how you are then."

"Okay."

"And stay here, understand?"

"Yessir."

With a snuff of approval, England gave him one last glace, and turned to leave, muttering softly about America being far more docile when sick. The door close dwith a soft click, lights flicked out, leaving Matthew alone.

Canada was quiet, uncertain if he should be happy or upset with what just happened. On one hand, he was given the opportunity to lay down, and he had been paid attention to and taken _care_ of. On the other hand... The attention was meant and assumed to be for someone else. Not for him. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

Matthew curled up on his side, under the soft covers of the generic bed, giving a small shiver and a shaky sigh.

- - -

Meanwhile... America chortled to himself from down the hallway to the conference room. He knew that England was going to berate him the moment that the break was called, so he made sure to book it out of the room as fast as he could. Mostly, he just wasn't in the mood to be scolded for a 'stupid idea'. Wasn't the whole point of the meetings was to bring out ideas and discuss them? Even if he didn't think of everything, he assumed that the others would try and input their own concepts and ideas.

He hummed to himself, holding a massive hamburger in his hand and giving a healthy chomp to it while he strode down the hallway back to the meeting room. He felt that the break would be over soon, and he probably should have started to head back. Before England had another reason to scold him.

He stepped in the room with a happy bounce to his step and announced, proudly, "The hero is here!"

Eh. Not such a great reception. Not everyone was back yet. Russia was still sitting in his chair creepily, Japan was sitting quietly in his, doing something or another, France was talking elegantly to Spain and England was sitting stiffly in his spot.

Huh... why was England looking so down all the sudden...?

The Englishman paused from his thoughts, and looked at America with a weird look, one that melded between concern, surprise and upset. He stood up and walked towards Alfred.

"What in the blazes are you doing here?" he asked the moment he was in earshot.

America blinked at him, chewing and swallowing the bite he just took. "What are you talkin' 'bout? I'm America. .. Ya know... the hero? I have to be here."

An annoyed tick appeared near England's eyebrow and he rubbed his forehead. "Not what I meant. Come here."

To America's surprise, England pulled off his glove, and with his other hand, he tugged America towards himself. A hand touched his forehead while the older nation mumbled. "You've only been down for 30 minutes, you can't possibly be feeling better..."

England stopped, confused. Huh...? Why did his forehead suddenly feel...?

America was confused also. Not confused enough though to stop himself from taking another bite of his burger. "... What are you _doing_?" He asked, brushing the hand away from his head. The American then rubbed at the spot for a second, and looked down at his own hand skeptically, as if expecting for England to have left something behind.

England spoke, more to himself than the Alfred, "What in the blazes... It's gone."

"... What's gone?"

"What do you mean 'what's gone'?"

"... That's what I mean. What's gone? What are you talking about? Are you okay? You're not going crazy on me, are you? Because... if you're going insane I don't think there's much I can do about th-"

"_I'm not going crazy_," England grated out stiffly, interrupting Alfred's narration.

"Okay okay geeze. Don't get your panties in a bunch," America snuffed, taking another massive bite of his burger and watching England with a baffled expression. "What were you doing anyway?" He asked after a moment of chewing, still having some of his bite in his mouth. "Checking for a fever or something...?"

"That was _precisely_ what I was doing."

"... Huh?" He stated, putting his hand up to his own forehead, forgetting that he had a glove on, and the fact that it just didn't work like that. "I'm not sick..."

England let loose a growl of frustration and he yanked the arm down. "You can't check it like that you idiot. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Wow. You are in a _really_ bad mood today. Mustn't be fun to go crazy."

"I. Am. _Not_. Going. Crazy."

"Yeah but you're imagining things again."

"I don't imagine things!" England ground out.

"Sure you don't."

England pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, and he let loose a sigh mixed with a frustrated growl. "Know what? Just... _never mind_." He turned and heatedly moved back to his chair and sat down.

"You can bloody keel over for all I care."

* * *

**Author's Notes** : Hello again! Thank you for the awesome revies, they kept me very modivated to go ahead and complete this chapter. I felt pumped. Probably helped that I was listening to the Olympics too. (Go Canada). This one came so fast particularly because I already had the basic concept for it thought up, (Which is, ya know, helpful when writing.)

I stayed up incredibly late to do this. I really need to sleep.

I hope you don't mind the random building concept. It's useful for the story, that and I felt it'd be something that'd be useful for them.

As for how Canada is acting while sick, I'm drawing on my own experiences, so if they seem weird, then I must feel weird when sick.

Thanks again~

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**Chapter Three Preview :** Now what? Great. Now what? Two angry countries. One in the middle of it. Accidently. Both times.

Thanks for reading! Please read and review!  
(Or become with Russia, da? :D)


	3. This is NOT a Salad

**Disclaimer of this Chapter **: There IS swearing in this chapter. So I warn you. It's not extreme or anything though.**  
Ownership** : It's the darndest thing... But even after all this time, a week or so, I STILL don't own Hetalia or any of it's characters. WEIRD. Huh.  
**Important Note** : ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down a nation in question. This is based off of characterizations, and not the countries involved. Thanks very much.

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**Chapter Three Summary** : When will his brother just get a frigging clue? He didn't want to- Ugh. Did he really have to? Again?

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**- Chapter Three - This is NOT a Salad -**

A large crowd blanketed the rink's seats, overflowing to the max capacity. Half of the audience wore red and white, and proudly displayed their nation's flags, the other half wore blue, white and red, also proudly showing off their own country banner. They roared with anticipation, as the hockey game below was drawing to a close.

The announcer's voice blared.

_"Alright, it's night now, the score is 7-7, last goal to Russia, an amazing battle so far. Never before have we seen such a vicious and tight game. There is just a few minutes left on the clock, which team will manage to dish out the tiebreaker before the bell blares? Canada... or Russia?"_

Each side cheered as the two teams faced off viciously, pounding into one another for the one soul object of their desires: the puck.

_"Both Russia's team and Canada's team are heaving heavy now, clearly every single player is exhausted and... - Ohhhh! Did you see that? Instant action replay please; one of the Canadian team members was just crushed into the side by the opposing team!_"

Canada grit his teeth, glaring from under his helmet and he gripped angrily at his hockey stick. He glowered at the man that smashed his team-member, and only got a pleasant smile in return when his glare was noticed. "Cheap shot!" Canada ground out angrily. "Come on! Win the game with your own skill, not some cheap shot against my players!"

Russia's skates kicked up ice as he skid to a stop in front of Canada. "Then you should do so as well, da? I seem to remember your team pushing my players into the sides too, mn?" He informed, a pleasant smile teasing his lips.

Canada didn't notice the dark aura that surrounded the man. "Fucking hoser," Canada growled, "It was an accident. _That,_" he said, pointing directly at his player that was being helped up, "was _clearly _intent."

"Mmn."

The banter was short-lived, ending there, and the game was back on.

_"Looks like both the team representatives, the very countries themselves, are getting even more fired up at this game this evening. Canada is playing especially viciously this evening, and - Oh! He's got the puck! He's got the puck!"_

The crowd _roared_ with excitement as Canada shot forward, weaving around large Russian players. He caught out of the corner of his eye the silhouette of Ivan coming up behind him like a deranged bull, and before anything could happen, he slapped the puck to the side.

_"Brilliant pass! The Canadians have a firm grip of the puck now, and there is no signs that they have any intentions of letting go! They are rapidly approaching the net!"_

Canada heard a rough growl come from the Russia as he blazed past him, dodging now between Canadian and Russian players alike. He saw the shot, he received it, and just as he was being intercepted by a very large player, he smacked the shot with all his might before he tripped and crashed into the ice.

He felt his heart pound in his ears.

_"- AND HE SCORES! With five seconds left on the clock, Canada himself has guaranteed a win for himself and his team!"_

The crowd erupted into loud cheers, the stands foaming red as they blared out their sheer joy and happiness. Canada just threw back his head and laughed. Yes! Yes! Finally! They won! It had been _so_ close. So very close...

Matthew bent forward. "M..mmn..." He grimaced all the sudden, holding a glove to his front. A wave of dizziness overtook him. "Mm..mmn...?"

The crowds, the cheering, the players, the net, the goal the ice, the hockey and the game disappeared into a whoosh darkness. It was all replaced by the sound of nothing beside the clock ticking lazily in the background and the feeling of being wrapped in warm soft fabric.

At first he was confused, he was sure that he was just at a hockey game, playing against Russia. But why...? He groaned. His eyes opened, and he fumbled for his glasses that sat carefully folded on the nightstand. Shoving them on his face, he adjusted to the light and regained his grip on reality.

A moment or two more passed, and Canada remembered where he was, and realized the game had been nothing but a dream; a small fantasy that never existed. Shame. It was a good dream. He sat up in the bed slowly, letting the sheets and comforter slip off his shoulders and crumple around his torso.

He glanced about the room, furthering a gain on his bearings on where he was. It was hard to forget, really. Matthew brushed some of his damp hair from his face, and wiped at his forehead, feeling a shiver overtake him. Carefully, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and tested to stand.

He reached a hand out to the wall, incase he wobbled and fell, but found his footing to be functioning normally. He smiled tiredly, glad that his sense of balance was no longer compromised; at least for the time being.

He took a sideways glance at the clock while he brushed his hair from his eyes further still, and noted how... an hour and a half had passed by. It was practically lunch time, and he had missed a small portion of the meeting already.

A bubbling sense of panic squeezed his stomach.

He had forgotten entirely England's worse to stay put. He also forgot, in his groggy state, that the meeting that day was going to be _much_ longer than the ones before. Perhaps it was his nature to suddenly spring up and panic like that when the realization that he was _late_ came to mind.

With a flustered movement, Matthew threw the covers back onto the bed, hastily smoothed it all out in a rough way of making it, then dashed out of the doorway.

"Maple. Maple. Maple. Maple," He swore to himself repeatedly in a swear that he-alone seemed to have. How could he have been so _stupid_? He was missing the meeting! And it was already lun-

_CRASH_

Matthew, due to his haste, flew straight into someone who was just turning around the corner. He sent them both topping into the ground with a loud crash. Canada himself was sent head-over-heels and into the floor and against the wall dizzily.

His head jeered and the world span in front of his eyes and he put two hands onto his head to keep the world from reeling so bad.

The person in question that he had crashed headlong into swore very loudly and sat up with a groan.

"Ow! Fuck! What the fuck hit me?!" Alfred demanded with a growl, standing up and rubbing at his bottom sorely. "Sheesh! It was like a moose rammed into me or something," he mumbled, annoyance lacing his tone as he puffed a cheek out childishly.

Canada unhinged himself from the wall, a wave of dizziness overtaking him so he wavered as he tried to regain his composure. Woah... Okay... Running into people at 50 kilometers an hour was no the greatest thing to do in the whole world...

Alfred's eyebrows raised and he suddenly noticed Canada's presence. "Oi! Matthew!" He said, grabbing Canada's wrist and yanked him to his feet all in one motion.

"What's the hurry, Matt?" He asked, brushing off Canada's shoulders and sides, not noticing the waver in Canada's stance. "Are you being chased by something?"

"Er... uh..." Canada fumbled his vision clearing and he looked at his brother. "I missed part of the meeting, I was trying to get here as quick as I could," he explained. "Uh... I'm sorry I ran into you. I'll make it up to you somehow or something..."

America didn't hear the last part of Matthew's statement, and he just looked baffled. "You mean you weren't in there the entire time?" He asked, totally stunned, his expression mirroring that. "I mean, I drove you here, and I saw you walk in, and I saw you go in the meeting room, and everything! Did you just... magic yourself out of the room somehow...?"

Canada sighed. So America didn't even notice his absence the whole time, or even the fact he had left... or anything at all that had to do with him, really. No, he certainly shouldn't be surprised by this fact at all.

"Well," he found himself explaining, though he really shouldn't have to. "I wasn't f-"

"Oh!" America exclaimed, coming to his own conclusion about things. "Oh I see! You probably wanted to go out for lunch, huh?" Alfred said, jamming his thoughts in. "Well good timing! I was just going to go out for lunch too, and how about _you_ come with_ me_."

"I... er..."

"It _is_ your car and everything, and you do have the keys and stuff."

Oh no. Not a repeat of this please. He did _not_ want to deal with a second round of his brother dragging him off somewhere only to have himself throw it all up later on.

But before he could even _begin_ to argue against Alfred, his brother's hand shot out and snatched his wrist. He was already being _dragged_ to the car.

"Come on Mattie!" Alfred exclaimed exuberantly, just dragging his brother along without giving Matthew so much as a chance to speak for himself. "Think of today as quality brother and brother time! I mean, we barely ever do it in the first place, so let's take full advantage!"

"A... A-a-Alfred!" Matthew managed out as he was tugged through the front doors.

They were instantly hit with a torrent of rain. During the time since they had come to the meeting and them leaving now, a horrendous rainstorm was in the process of beginning. And first came the rain.

Of course. None of this mattered to the heroic America. Feh. What could a little rain do?

So, Canada's exclamations fell onto deaf ears and he was only let go when they reached Matthew's car.

Matthew heaved heavy breaths, trying to shade his head from the rain that bucketed down upon them. Was his brother so oblivious to the pounding rain as he was on Matthew's pleas? Really? Was he so self-absorbed that he could barrage on forward without a care or whim save for the goal set before him?

In one way, it was a good quality for Alfred to have; to be headstrong and goal-seeking. On the other hand, it meant that he was stubborn as a mule and single-minded to boot.

Matthew opened his mouth to protest when he saw a hand jammed in his face, making the motions that it wanted something.

Canada's works died in his throat and he looked at his brother lamely. "...?"

"Come on! We're getting soaked! Gimme the keys already! I'm driving! I'll gave 'em back to you this morning."

If he was in his right mind, Matthew would have come to the sweet realisation that not giving the keys to Alfred would result in them simply not going. But perhaps, his mind already decided that _not_ giving them to America would cause him far more troubles than he could fathom. So with a fumble, Canada fished them out of his pocket and held them out for the man.

Alfred snatched them, unlocked the car, and plopped inside to protection against the rain. He gestured wildly to Matthew.

"Get in! Get in! You'll get sick if you don't!"

Oh. The _irony._

Matthew hesitated. He looked at Alfred, then looked behind him at the building. He remembered how ill he had felt earlier and running to the bathroom to only be mistaken for-

"Matthew! Hurry the hell up!"

He sighed, feeling that he had no better chance of escaping his brother, than a fish hooked through the gills. He jogged to the other side of the car, and slipped into the passenger seat, slamming the door.

America looked far too pleased with himself, and hummed a note of happiness as he did up his buckle. "Oh this is so much fun Matthew," he commented jovially. "I mean, come on, how often do you get treated to lunch by awesome me, huh?"

Canada looked at him. "... Not that often," he admitted.

It really was a rare thing that he was being paid attention to at all; even though the attention seemed to be focused on one thing and one thing only, while shadowing everything _else_ about him.

"Haha! See? And this meeting is running till... like, forever," he sighed. "England said it's going to run till _ten o'clock_," Alfred explained as he pulled out the car from the parking lot, the wipers flashing up and down to hold back the rain. "I mean, really? That long? Do we really need to be in a meeting for that long?"

Canada leaned back, "Well the meetings are important, we are countries after all. It's a big, and very important job. A _very_ important job."

America huffed. "Yeah, an important job that takes hours upon hours and hours to do sometimes. This is crazy. You don't see normal people work for over... what? Ten hours?"

"We get breaks, Alfred. Like the one we're taking now?"

"... Yeah well... Still don't like it."

Matthew sighed and wondered where he was being taken this time. Hopefully somewhere he could maybe order something modest and easy on his stomach. While it felt pretty good at the moment, he didn't want to aggravate it at all. He wanted to play it safe.

Alfred glanced at Canada sideways as he turned the wheel. "You know, how about we make a day of this."

"... A day of this?"

"Yeah! I'll take you out for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sound awesome, huh?" America said, grinning a wide and toothy grin. "Best way to kill time is together, huh?"

"... And what do I have to do in return?" Canada questioned.

There was _no way _this was all going to be for free. America most likely wanted _something_ from him. Toronto perhaps? Maybe he wanted Quebec? Oh oh, maybe he wanted British Columbia because he heard rumors that they were 'too American' anyway...

"Nothing."

Matthew paused his rambling thoughts. "... Nothing?"

"... Yep, is there an echo in here? Absolutely nothing."

Was Alfred seriously doing all of this to be... nice? The moment stunned Canada so bad he forgot that he didn't even _want_ to go in the first place. Just the sheer fact that America got the concept of being really nice and brotherly to him stunned him to no ends.

"Wow... Thanks," Canada said genuinely, only to earn a snuff of amused air from America's nose. "Where are you taking me today...?"

"Oh! Just a burger joint around here," America commented cheerfully, turning the car down a corner. "It's a good one. I go there for lunch all the time when we meet at this venue."

Should have guessed it. No huge surprise there. As they drove to the destination, Matthew was already trying to think of something that would not anger his stomach. Burger? No. Shake? No. Coffee? No. Fries? Definitely no. Chicken pieces? No. A salad...? Did they have that? Oh... He could a salad. That was an excellent idea.

He brightened upon this revelation. Most of these places now had salad on the menu, and eating a bunch of leaves and vegetables should be soft enough on his growingly-irritated stomach.

Saying that he was in for a disappointment would be an extreme understatement.

When they arrived at the greasy place, jogged through the rain, and Canada had made his order for a salad, boy he did not know what he was in for. The place was a little fancier than the typical 'burger joint'. Perhaps that was why America liked it so much. So instead of having to wait at the counter after they ordered, they could go and sit, and then a waitress could give them their food once it was ready.

Pretty nice setup, actually.

Alfred looked jovial as per normal, unable to wait to sink his teeth into the multiple hamburgers that he had ordered. Canada just couldn't wait for his good modest salad to come so he could fill in the gaps in his stomach and then go back to the meeting...

When the food came, he was suddenly aware that the definition of salad must have changed in the recent years. What sat before him was _not_ a salad. It was some chicken, cheese and lettuce monstrosity. Yes, Canada knew that chicken would not be on it. He expected light chicken strips, not... not... these massive chunks of chicken that looked twice-battered and deep fried.

He felt positively _green_ just looking at it. How the hell could he eat this? Oh... he _couldn't_ eat this.

As expected, America was already snarfing down his own lunch, unaware of how positively disgustingly huge and massively greasy it was. Or maybe he was fully aware. Just maybe that was the whole reason why they were there in the first place; to get huge, massive, disgusting balls of fat.

Canada shoved his plate forward and sighed, he couldn't even smell it without his stomach giving a twist to remind him of earlier.

America tilted his head. "... You're not going to eat?"

In a rare moment Matthew found himself, even then, having to just plain refuse. Normally, he wouldn't. Even if it was _absolutely disgusting_, Matthew would have muscled through it, finished it off, and given Alfred a polite smile and a very warm thank you. That's just what he'd normally do; that's just who he _was_. But the air of illness still hung over him, and it was that one straw too many that made the task seem completely unbearable.

"No..." He finally said. "No I can't. I can't eat this." He said looking at the plate with real distain. "I'm sorry, but I really doubt I could stomach this."

Alfred arched an eyebrow at him. "Wha? Really? It's fine. It's really good too." He added for good measure. "You ordered it."

"It wasn't what I expected," Matthew mumbled and he glanced over at the monstrosity trying to pass itself off as a salad. He grimaced just imagining it going down his throat, and looked back at Alfred.

America was starting to look thoroughly insulted.

"Oh get off it Mattie. It's _fine_. I don't know what's gotten into you all the sudden, but really, it's fine. It's a salad. It's what you ordered. And it's good. I mean, even _I've_ ordered and eaten that."

_And that says a whole lot about it, now doesn't it?_ Matthew sarcastically thought, but he kept the words from passing his lips.

The American was beginning to look more offended the more Canada refused to take a bite. He had taken Canada all this way, only to have his brother turn his nose up at it? Oh come on, it wasn't like they were using his money anyway! They were using good ol' American dollars. _His_ money! And that in itself should make Matthew know that refusing it was rude. Because he was paying for it!

He glowered after swallowing a massive bite of his burger.

"Come on. Have _some_. You liked breakfast."

"... Breakfast was different. Breakfast was delicious. I'd much rather have that, than _this_... This... this is _not_ a salad Alfred. I don't know what planet you're from, but this is not a salad."

Alfred harrumphed. "You ordered it. You eat it." He then heatedly decided to focus on his food, now ignoring Canada.

When Canada was posed with the problem of putting himself before others, or others before himself... the want to please everyone and help anyone always came first. _Always_. So because Alfred was starting to seem more and more offended, the poor Canadian couldn't bear to have insulted anyone, and he slid the place back towards himself.

Oh he was really going to regret this.

Jabbing the silverware into the bowl, he tried to dig around the chicken and to the sparse lettuce below. With a tentative gesture, he shoved it into his mouth and chewed. Oh dear _lord_. _Nothing_ should have ever had that much dressing on it; unless it was bottled, packaged and sold as dressing. Nothing. He liked ranch dressing very much, but he seriously wanted some _lettuce_ to go with it!

He made a face, but masked it over when his brother glanced up. Perhaps the chicken would be better...? He took a fork and a knife and dug into it, and tried to maybe just eat the inside part... Just the chicken and skip over the batter part all together.

He grimaced. So greasy. Sure, it was succulently tender, and it fell apart to the fork and tongue, but it was so greasy that the flavor slid down his throat un-tasted just as easily as the chicken did.

And because he was who he was, Canada just took forkful after forkful, somehow trying to find if eating certain parts would diminish the terribleness of the whole. He endured all of this just so he didn't end up offending his brother and make Alfred regret taking him altogether.

The very idea of having America pull out on his rare promise stung a little…

Instantly it wasn't settling well in his stomach. The first few bites had been okay, because he was drowning it out with water and chewing extra thoroughly. But the fat content was the lead weight here, and it hit his sore stomach like a ton of bricks; not even _ten_ bites in.

Matthew greened, putting a hand on his poor offended stomach, and suppressed a groan that was bubbling in his throat. His mouth felt so _dry_ all the sudden, and the concept of another bite was painful.

Alfred was preoccupied with eating, so he didn't exactly notice at first. But after a moment, realizing Canada had stopped eating completely, he glanced up at his burger.

He begun speaking with a snobbish tone. "Oh? Done are we? Not going to finish?"

"...Mmn..." Canada tried to find words but his stomach was... was...

America rolled his eyes and looked at him sharply. "That's just ru-" He stopped, his expression dying. "Mattie? H-Hey... Matt?"

He pushed his chair back.

Canada had gone completely white, bending forward, arms around his stomach. Alfred stood sharply from the table without a single word more said, and helped his brother out of his chair. He quickly guided his stumbling brother to the bathroom.

He may be oblivious sometimes. But he wasn't _stupid_.

Alfred rushed them both inside, and locked the door behind him. He was glad it was one of those personal single-person toilets. Nobody else needed to be passing buy and hearing...

Matthew retched loudly, having only just barely made it. He dashed to the toilet, falling on his hands and knees for the second time that day.

America was quick to his side as he coughed and spluttered and rid of the foul food he had forced his stomach to take in. Surprisingly, Alfred didn't seem to be disgusted, and he rubbed Matthew's back awkwardly, or brushed his hair away from his face so it didn't get caught up in the mess.

He knew what to do in these situations. But that didn't stop it from being awkward.

Matthew tried to force back the tears that started to fall, sucking in a few breaths when he had the chance to. After a few more minutes, and a few more rounds with the porcelain throne, everything simmered and quelled.

Quietly, Alfred helped Canada sit properly against the wall, and handed him some paper towels and a damp towelette that he always had on his person. Matthew thanked him only with a nod. How. Embarrassing.

It was a few minutes after Matthew got himself more composed and cleaned up, did Alfred speak. "Wow... U... Uh are you okay now?"

"Y... Yeah," Canada said, letting loose a breath. He noted to himself that he wasn't getting complete relief like the last time.

"So uh," America shifted and he helped Canada to stand. "... Sorry I made you eat that shit."

Canada gave a soft sigh and a smile. "It's okay. You really didn't make me. It wasn't _that_ terrible. I guess I just couldn't stomach it. That's all." He shifted. "I'm sorry that... um... happened."

America waved it off quickly. "Nah! It's no problem! Man you turned as white as a sheet though. I seriously thought you were going to hurt right then and there. Scared me."

"Eh... Sorry..." Matthew apologized again. Honestly.

He wavered.

America's hand gently held his shoulder, a note of concern tweaking at Alfred's expression now. "Oi... Something wrong?"

"What? Oh. No no no... I'm perfectly fine now," He half-lied. "I guess I needed to get it out of my system real bad. Still kind of wobbly from it. That'll go away."

Alfred looked at him critically, took Matthew's wrist with far less far as he had so before, and he began to lead them out of the bathroom and out of the building.

The barrage of rain pummelled down on them again, but this time Alfred was being ten times more considerate and he pulled the corner of his coat partially over Matthew as they _walked_ back to the car. It was a little awkward, but he managed to keep most of the rain away from his brother's head.

Since he still had the keys, America unlocked the car with a click and helped Canada into the passenger's seat.

"Thanks... But uh, the lunch... and your food..."

"You kidding me? I'm not going to get that stuff. It nearly poisoned you," Alfred commented, shooting the establishment a glad. "At least," he added as an afterthought, "your salad almost did."

"..."

"Hold on a sec, okay? Don't move a muscle."

Canada blinked, but nodded as his brother shut the door and dashed back into the restaurant.

What was America going to do in there? Was he getting the food that was left on the table? Perhaps he was ordering more burgers for himself. That in itself wasn't too surprising, seemed he really loved the place. Perhaps he was reaming them out for 'poisoning' his 'dear brother'. Heh... in his dreams. That definitely was going to be a no.

Matthew grunted, and pulled the lever of the seat so he could lay back slightly, feeling ill to the stomach again. He hand resumed its position there, and he closed his eyes.

In a matter of no time at all, the driver's side opened and the car shifted as America's weight hit the seat.

"... Hey Matt, you okay?"

Canada opened one of his violet eyes and he glanced at his brother. "Yeah. M'good. Just pulled the seat back."

He was then handed something. A cup with a straw.

"Uh... I really don't wa-"

"You don't even know what it is," America said, making him hold it. He shut the door. "It's not soda or anything. Well, kind of. It's ginger ale."

Matthew looked at the cup. Ginger ale?

"The stuff helps to ease queasy stomachs. I mean, didn't you tell me that before? You said a while back that it worked for you. So..." He scratched the side of his cheek. "I figured that it'd help..."

Canada smiled. "Thanks. Yeah. This is exactly what I need." He proved it by taking a grateful sip.

Alfred looked relieved and turned the keys to start the car. "Good. You keep drinkin' that as much as you want then. But not too much, huh? Don't want to make yourself hurl in your own car. Not cool."

Mathew let loose a small laugh at that. "Yessir."

As America drove back, taking a detour so he could skip through heavy traffic that was clocking a major intersection, Canada laid back in his seat, sipping at the ginger ale. Unfortunately, as kind and sweet as the gesture was, it was doing nothing to settle ache that settled and grew slowly at the pit of his stomach.

America would periodically steal glances at his brother. The whole throwing-up thing had unnerved him and he had a bad feeling that Matthew was suffering more from just a one-off stomachache. He didn't know why, but he just had this _feeling_ that wasn't the case.

As they slowly neared, America spoke up, a tint of concern lacing his voice. "Yo Matt?" He began, glancing at him again while they were at a light.

"Mmmn?" Canada hummed.

"You look really green around the gills."

"Heh," Canada responded. "I feel green around the gills," he admitted simply, his arms wrapped around his stomach.

Alfred's eyebrows knit. "Man, I didn't think you'd take to the food _that_ badly. D'ya think you gotta hurt again?"

"Not yet..." He responded.

The 'yet' part of the response made America pull off from the course he was currently heading, and to a new destination.

"Alfred...?"

"Yeah yeah, I know your type. Super-modest. Look, you didn't tell me you wanted to throw up when we were in the restaurant, so I am inclined to believe," he said matter-o-factly, "That I should find a place with a bathroom soon else your car is going to reek soon."

He pulled the car to a nearby gas-station and he heaved himself out of the vehicle walking to the passenger side. He then helped Matthew up and out of the car, despite Matthew's protests that he could walk just fine, he still insisted on guiding him there. He noted every step that wobbled.

Surprisingly, the bathrooms weren't nasty.

Sure enough, by his foreshadowing, Alfred was entirely correct. By the time they had reached the bathroom, Matthew had gone pale again, his hand snapping to cover his mouth and hold back what was soon to come.

America, though tempted, didn't have the heart to say, 'I told you so.' He just pitifully rubbed Canada's back instead.

"U-ugh... so... embarrassing..." Canada sniffed, wiping a few stray beads of tears that rolled down his cheek.

"It's not. You can't help it," Alfred said, getting another moist towelette for his brother to use to clean up. "It's not like you decided, 'Hey! I'm going to go and throw up in front of my brother right now! All right that is an awesome idea!'."

Canada nodded, his head hanging slightly. "A... at least England... isn't waiting at the door this time."

America's head tilted. "Wha? England" America asked, helping to make sure that he got it all off around his cheeks and lips. "What about him?"

Canada swallowed, fighting back some slight dizziness that was settling in his head. "Last time," he explained, "England was outside the bathroom door when it happened... So embarrassing."

"Eh?" Alfred was confused.

Canada didn't notice. "Even worse 'cause he thought I was you..." Matthew mumbled, remembering England's tirade against him as if he were Alfred.

America stopped, and looked at Canada. The gears in his head worked. He slowly asked, drawing back from Matthew. "When did this... when did this... happen...?" He had a bad feeling about this.

"Today," was the lame response.

Alfred's eyes widened as it all clicked. When he had re-entered the meeting room, _that_ would explain England rumpled attitude, and why he said something about being 'down' for a half and hour, and the fact that he felt his forehead. He froze. Forehead.

Without a word, he snapped off his glove, and put his hand on Canada's forehead.

His eyes widened upon the discovery and the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. "Shit! You have a fever."

"Its not that bad..." Matthew mumbled, lamely defending himself.

Alfred, brushed some of the hair, and moved to try to get a better inclination of the temperature. Was it a bad fever...? He couldn't really tell. He wasn't an expert but damnit his brother was _warm_.

"Why didn't you _tell _me you were sick? How long have you had a fever?" America demanded, his hands moved to Matthew's shoulders.

"Since... this morning."

"T... This _morning_? You mean before you came and picked me up?"

"Well, yeah... But it honestly wasn't very bad then, it was really mild. Like, really mild. I took something for it so..."

America pressed his hand on Matthew's forehead again in lieu of a response, looking concerned. He made a sound, a click of his tongue, and he withdrew.

"... Let's get you back to the meeting place now... And in a bed or something." Alfred said, standing.

"O... Okay." He didn't argue.

When Matthew stood, he stumbled, the weakness returned to his joints and the weights feeling heavier around his wrists and ankles. Alfred steadied him, and put more effort into guiding him back to the car.

The American got Canada down into the seat, concerned now that Matthew was noticeably starting to decline before his very eyes, and was definitely worse than when the initially left. He pat Matthew's shoulder had hopped into the driver's.

"If you gotta throw up or something," Alfred said evenly, "Even if it's a false alarm, just tell me, okay? It's not a problem or anything. Okay? Just tell me."

"... 'kay..."

America didn't want to waste a single moment more driving back to the meeting building. It was much closer than Canada's home, and there were _people there_. People who could help. People who'd probably know what to do in the case that Matthew got worse. Banish the thought.

He stole glances at his brother, who was now relenting under the weight of whatever it was that ailed him. Perhaps the fact that Alfred finally had noticed made Canada's body tell him to just give in already, that there was no use in resisting it anymore.

Matthew slumped in the seat, closing his eyes, and felt the weight of it all tumble down like dominos.

Alfred pulled into the parking lot, not caring at all that they were late for the next round of discussions.

"Okay Matthew, we're here," Alfred said, jamming the keys in his pocket. There was just no bloody way he was going to let him drive anytime soon.

There was no response.

"... Matt...?"

Canada's eyes were closed, his head lolled off to one side as he breathed irregular breaths, a discomforted expression creased his brow. America now noticed the flush of fever that graced his brother's cheekbones.

... Had that always been there? Had he just mistaken it for the flush against the cold nippy weather? Or was that new?

"Matt?"

He reached his un-gloved hand towards Matthew, and brushed his hand back to the clammy forehead.

"Come on Matt... Don't fade on me now, bro. Couldn't you have just waited till we got inside?" America asked softly, voice full of concern now. "There's lovely beds and everything you can collapse on all day and night if you wanted..."

Matthew gave a sound in his throat and he opened his eyes, which trained themselves onto Alfred. "Mm?"

"Hey," Alfred greeted. "You're kinda going downhill fast, Mattie," America commented idly, masking off his worry.

Canada took in a breath and pushed himself into a proper sitting position, but the world span as he did so. He was ushered back against the seat to ease the spinning.

Alfred could feel the tingle of heat behind his fingers when he withdrew and he chewed at his lip.

This wasn't good.

* * *

**Author's Notes** :

Yeah... sorry for the wait. I suppose it wasn't that bad eh? To tell you the truth, I had this half-written only a day after I uploaded the last chapter, and it DID infact fit the Chatper Three Preview. But uh... I decided to postpone that till chapter four...

Yep.

This chapter is also LONG. I am sorry it is so long. I told myself that 6,000 word chapters shouldn't be an everyday thing. But I followed my dad's wisdom of, "Make it as long as you need it to be." So here it is. As long as it needs to be.

GAH I FEEL TERRIBLE FOR DOING THIS TO YOU MATTHEW. *cries*

[Also, being Canadian, I kinda like hockey, but I also know NOTHING about it really. I don't watch it tons. So... ignore anything wrong in the game. Blame it all on the fact it was a dream. And no. It was not based of of any real games. Nope.]

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**Chapter Four Preview :** Not good. This was NOT GOOD. What more... but Russia REALLY isn't in a good mood.

Thanks for reading! Please read and review!  
(Or become with Russia, da? :D)

Oh, and a special note to EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED. I TOTALLY didn't realise I could reply to reviews untill now. Since it's been a while since I've uploaded anything or I might just be a complete airhead. But I'll say THANK YOU RIGHT NOW to EVERYONE who reviewed. I'm not kidding when I say that every one made me smile and kept me enspired to write more! Thank you!


	4. It's all Too Much

**Disclaimer of this Chapter :** There IS swearing in this chapter. If you're senstive to that... um... turn on a mental bleep or something.

**Ownership :** Still don't own Hetalia. Though I really wish it'd get dubbed already so I can buy the DVD in my local anime store... boo hoo.

**Important Note :** ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down a nation in question. This is based off of characterizations, and not the countries involved. Thanks very much.

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**Chapter Four Summary :** This... is not good. Maybe being invisible would just be better. No. No he did not want this.

* * *

**- Chapter 4 - It's all Too Much - **

England sat with his fingers drumming quietly on the top of the table's surface. His head was resting in his hand and he let loose a soft, but irritable sigh at the empty space beside him. The question that he asked himself as he gazed at it's emptiness was : Just were was America? He was not usually late for the meetings. In fact, he was mostly diligent about being on time.

But, there Arthur was, sitting at the table, and no Alfred to be seen.

Germany's loud and commanding voice naturally captivated the room as he began to talk about various issues, concerns and problems that needed to be addressed by every country alike. England mind idly questioned the oddity of why Ludwig seemed to take the stand so often in their meetings... Hmn. Probably because he just _was_ so naturally charismatic, it was just easier to sit and listen to him talk.

England's fingers stopped drumming on the table top when his cellphone went off.

Germany's words cut off short and he turned to England; his eyebrow arched in a slightly annoyed, but gesturing for him to just take it, manner.

Arthur stood, waving his hand and apologizing, "I'm sorry. Let me take this outside the room. I suspect its Alfred," he explained. "Carry on."

A nod in response, and Ludwig began to speak again, once more pulling the attention of all the other nations as he read off his list of things that they needed to address.

England leaned against the wall, sighing, and he flipped open his phone and pressed it to his ear. "Hello?" He answered, knowing his tone sounded exasperated and was doing nothing to stop it. "Alfred, I hope you are well aware that we are in the middle of a meeting. One, I might add, _you_ should be attending."

An annoyed growl was the response on the other end of the line, causing England to smirk.

Alfred spoke, though his tone odd, _"Yeah, I don't really give a shit about that right now,_" the American said. _"Look, we have a problem, England, and I really need someone's help."_

The surprise was not hidden from Arthur's face. Alfred's tone sounded genuine and serious. He could hear the note of worry as well under Alfred's breath; so the annoyance at America's absence was quickly replaced with a tug of worry.

"... What's wrong?" He asked quickly. "Did something happen? Do you need for me to pick you up somewhere?"

_"No... Matthew's sick_," Alfred explained, his tone fluttering to a semi-guilty one. _"Like, really sick._"

Arthur paused, confusion seeping in. "... Who...?"

There was a long silence that followed. Long enough for England to assume either Alfred didn't hear him, or the line suddenly went dead. But before he could question it out loud, Alfred's voice lashed out _angrily_.

_"Who? Who? My fucking god England! Matthew! Canada. Your other son! The second largest country on this entire planet. My brother. My twin brother. THAT MATTHEW."_

England jeered back at the shouting and realization swiftly became recollection. Another silence fell, and this time it was entirely on the part of England. Oh god. How... how could he have for any moment have forgotten _that_.

"R-... right..." He said lamely. "I didn't hear you the first time. There was no need to be so bloody rude about it," he said, regaining mental footing and using a lame excuse on his behalf. "Now... What did you say about him being ill...?

Alfred sighed. _"He's really sick. Matthew is shivering, really drowsy and out of it. He has a bad fever from what I can tell, and not to mention he can't seem to go more than ten or fifteen minutes without having to throw up._"

England felt a bubble of parental worry beginning to form. "Really...? Where are you two now?"

_"We're actually only just in the parking lot. Mattie is kind of um... Well... He's a little... Well he can't get up right now and he's a bit... preoccupied..."_ That knowledge was punctuated by the sound of coughing in the background of the call.

He couldn't help but green a little at the mental image. "Oh... Alfred, do you think you can get Matthew inside? Or are you calling because you want me to come out to the parking lot?"

_"I could just carry him inside, but encase you aren't aware, it is absolutely fucking pouring out there,"_ came the reply, a little more laced with swears due to stress. _"Do you have an umbrella or a long jacket or something? I don't want Matthew to get soaked on top of getting sick like this."_

"I'll be there Alfred. Just let me fetch an umbrella - "

There was the sound of shifting and America's voice came back somewhat muted as the phone must have been put down. _"Woah woah Mattie. Sit back slowly, kay? I'm just in the middle of phoning England. He's going to come to the car and we'll get inside. Alright... There. That's better._"

England's eyebrows crinkled and he spoke when he heard the phone was picked up again. "Is it really that bad? I know you already intended to... but is it _necessary _that you carry him?"

_"I have to. There's no way he's going to be able to stand anymore. It's so weird. It all happened so quickly too. When we actually went out for lunch, he was pretty much normal. Now he's as sick as a dog."_

There was a pause, Arthur could hear Matthew's voice just barely. Alfred provided the translation.

_"Matthew just said sometimes when he gets ill, he kind of loses his ability to stay balanced._"

Ah, he knew that feeling. There had been a few occasions where that had happened to himself. "Hmn... Alright. Please sit tight. I'll be there." He moved to hang up the phone, but heard Alfred beckoning him.

_"- and England? Canada's car is the only black car in the parking lot. It has the small Canadian flag on the antennae._"

England glowered into the cellphone, as if America could see it. "I know what my own son's car looks like!" He snapped. "I'll see you in a moment." He hung up and strode away; never admitting once that he was grateful for the information... as he'd likely have been walking circles around the entire parking lot...

- - -

Alfred hung up the phone and looked over at Matthew. He appeared to be more awake than when they had first arrived at the parking lot. Then, he had almost thought Canada had passed out or something by how unresponsive he was. Good thing that hadn't been the case.

"... Alfred?"

"Mmn?"

"... You don't have to carry me, you know," Canada said with a shift. "I can walk."

America raised an eyebrow and snorted. "Walk? You? No. You just said to me that you lose your ability to stay balanced. I can see more than obvious proof of that now; Mr. I-can't-even-sit-upright. Besides, I don't want you to be walking out in that rain, only to have you fall over, face-plant, and break something."

"..."

Alfred gave a triumphant smirk. "Yeah, see? There you go. I'm right." He grinned widely for the sake of his brother and thumbed at himself, "Because I'm the hero."

Canada let loose a tired chuckle and nestled back into the seat with a shiver. His gaze moved away from his brother and he looked at the rain that pattered constantly down against the windshield of his car.

"Hey... Alfred?"

"Yeah Matt?"

"I know you phoned England, and I kind of heard some of it. Even though I was... er..." He shifted with embarrassment. "... Anyway. Um, I heard you talking to England. Did he... uh... forget?"

"Forget?" Alfred repeated.

"My name."

America frowned all the sudden and turned to Canada. Whenever he called attention to it, he was pretty aware of Matthew's curse of perpetual invisibleness. He never really did understand why though. Canada was one of the kindest, softest and big-hearted people he knew. He never spoke ill of people, and always thought of others... Yet, he was plagued with being forgotten left right and centre...

He could just _hear_ from Matthew's tone, that he was hurt by the concept of England forgetting him. He was sure that normally Canada would brush it off, being as it was a pretty common thing... But he could see and hear the slight hurt.

"Well uh," he started, "I think England didn't hear me," Alfred said, stealing his father's lame excuse. "I might've flown off the handle a little too quickly. Heh... There I go again, making assumptions before I let a person finish, huh? I ought to be scolded." He tried to give a winning smile.

"S'okay," Canada said quietly. "I... I was just curious. People always forget. Well, my country name at the very lest. I was just curious if he had forgotten 'Matthew' as well..."

"..."

Oh that look was just _painful_ to witness.

It was then that the form of a man holding a large black umbrella was seen next to the driver's side of the car. When the door opened, Alfred made sure to send him the most scathing expression he could muster.

Which, not so surprisingly, drew a great deal of shock from the Englishman; he had not been expecting an accusatory glare the instant he saw them, but upon looking at Matthew's face, he completely understood why.

"I have two umbrellas; it doesn't do any good for any of us to get soaked. I also have this," He gestured with his arm, which had a long black trench-coat draped over it. "I think this will help."

"Go around to the other side of the car," Alfred instructed. He held out his hand. "Umbrella please?"

England handed America the umbrella, standing aside so Alfred could crawl out of the vehicle.

Canada spoke when his passenger-side door opened, "I'm okay. Really. Y-you know... I think I'm starting to feel a whole lot better. I-I guess I got it out of my system and everything." He moved to sit up. "I can get up myself, and walk, it's okay..."

Aha! There it was. Alfred was waiting for when it'd finally kick in. Canadian modesty at it's finest: The unwillingness to trouble other people with themselves. The want and need to place themselves behind others. There it was, in full gear too by the look on Matthew's face. He'd hate to admit it right then, but, Matthew was just a _weird_ country. Most others would positively revel in this opportunity.

"Nonsense," England said and he moved past Alfred as he draped the coat over his ill son. "I can see from miles away that you're clearly lying. The stutter in your voice does very little to convince me otherwise."

And... Yep, Alfred mused. English sharp tongue and soft scolding. Just what he expected. Perfectly countered Matthew's infallible Canadianess. Because, as Canada moved to open his mouth to protest, one stern look from the Englishman was all it took for Canada to shut his mouth and not dare to argue again.

Alfred turned his attention to his father. "Okay. How are we going to work this? I can carry him inside, but I can't hold an umbrella."

"I'll hold it, you just get him."

Alfred nodded, shutting his umbrella and hanging it by the loop around his wrist. He then bent into the car, and moved his arm under Matthew's knees and the other braced his back. With a swift and easy movement, he hoisted his brother upwards and against his chest.

England met the motion with an umbrella, holding it above both his son's heads.

Adjusting slightly, America stepped off, brother in his arms.

"Um... 'merica," Canada mumbled, feeling sufficiently embarrassed and buried against Alfred. "I... I can walk..."

"A la la la, I cant hear you for some mysterious and magical reason. Weird. I suppose I'll just keep on carrying you till that clears up."

England rolled his eyes but a snuff of air from his nose indicated that he found that rather clever and amusing.

The bizarre family moment wasted no time in getting into the building, up a flight of stairs, and to the convenient dorms that littered the hallway. All the doors were open, indicating that none of them had current occupants, or were claimed. Alfred took it upon himself then to be entirely too picky for his brother's sake. He was only going to pick the room he deemed the absolute best.

The whole way, from the car, to the room, Alfred very protectively held his brother close.

"How wet are you two? Do you think he's too damp to lay in bed? A new change of clothes perhaps?" England asked, closing the door behind him. He gestured. "Settle him down on this recliner."

He pulled a lever on the chair, and it pulled back into an almost-horizontal position.

"We were out in the rain a few times. Not that long. But his pants are probably damp. Couldn't hurt to get a new change of clothes," Alfred responded, levering Canada down.

He moved to a dresser that was in the corner of the room and rifled through it. "Looks like they're as stocked as ever for us. Let's see... towels, extra sheets," he plopped some of the sheets on the floor. "Some basic white collared shirts, some basic pants... Ah!" He smiled and he pulled out some basic red pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt. "Heh. I love this place."

While America was rifling through the drawers, England leaned beside Canada, and pressed a worrying hand to his forehead. He withdrew when he felt the prickling heat against his fingers.

"My goodness... That's quite the fever you're sporting now, isn't it?"

Canada hummed apologetically.

England pulled up a chair and looked at his son. "Canada... Matthew, I apologize. This morning..." He started awkwardly, shifting in his seat, "... That wasn't Alfred I met outside the bathroom, was it?"

Matthew shook his head softly.

"... That was you... Wasn't it?" England finished, feeling a tight web of guilt in his chest.

Canada just nodded softly.

"I'm sincerely sorry... I... I really am. I must have lost my head today. I really must have," He brushed his hand back against the younger nation's forehead. "If I'd have known, or been smart enough to realise my mistake, I would definitely have come back to check on you for sure."

"S'okay..."

"No!" England found himself snapping. "It bloody well is not okay! If I hadn't had the thought you were Alfred, then I would not have made the assumption that you were just him trying to play some bloody trick on me. And if _that_ didn't happen, then you'd probably be in bed, and not settled down with the fever that you're sporting now."

Canada brushed away the hand. "No... really it's okay now. I don't care. It's okay."

England grit his teeth with annoyance, not at Canada directly, but at himself. At his sheer stupidity, at the fact that it was plainly obvious to him, that it was _his fault_. Arthur felt it was true, if he hadn't let the realisation it was Matthew slip through his fingers, then Canada wouldn't be in this situation.

At the very least, this was Arthur's reasoning.

Matthew must have had the ability to read minds, or he was very good at guessing people's thoughts, because he put a hand on his father's forearm. "England. It's fine. Really... It's okay. It's not your fault or anything. I really am used to it. I... I'm not surprised by it either. It's fine..."

America suddenly made his presence known to the two countries, effectively cutting the conversation off right where it needed to be. If it went on much longer, no doubt it would turn sour. It was uncertain if Alfred had actually intervened then because of that...

He held out the t-shirt and pair of pyjama bottoms that he found. "Here. These should be good enough. I couldn't find any long-sleeved shirts that weren't stiff formal collared shirts. This'll do fine, right?"

England tore his gaze away from Canada and nodded, taking the clothes. "These will do." He then noted, with a vague form of amusement, despite the previous conversation, "How fitting Matthew. Red and white."

Canada gave a small smile

"I'll help you change m'boy, and before you argue, I can remind you of the time that you and your brothel decided it would be an excellent idea to tear off your clothes and run starkers through the neighbourhood for a good fifteen minutes. Believe me, if I hadn't seen it all before, I had certainly seen it all then."

Both Canada _and_ America flushed.

"Oi!" Alfred protested. "You said you'd never speak of that again!"

England chuckled. 'I don't remember signing any formal documentation on that." His amused smile morphed into a more serious one. "Alfred, while I get him changed, may you please see if you can find a few things...?"

"... Things? Like what?"

"Some cold water. Food if you _can_, but don't make that a priority. Something easy to digest if you do manage. A thermometer should be priority though. A bowl and a cloth, or a cold compress," Arthur instructed. "Basic things we'll need to monitor Matthew's health."

"Oh! Right. Yeah, of course. You don't need to ask."

He pat Matthew on the top of his head. "Don't worry Mattie. We'll save the day in no time. Then you'll go back to drinking maple syrup by the gallon, eh?" He said the last word with a wink and moved to stride out of the room.

England turned to Canada. "..."

He remembered something though and he looked up. "Ah! Alfred! I warn you though: If you see Ivan in the hallways, it's best if you just ignore him."

America stopped. "... Hhm? Why?"

"It seems our Russian 'comrade' is under the spell of an ill mood." Arthur said as he pulled Canada into a wavering sitting position. "Something is bothering him, and he's been in a terrible mood all day. So it's best to avoid him, and don't give him any ideas."

"... Huh. Have any idea why ol' Ivan is in such a terrible mood, so to speak?"

"Well, Germany and I decided it has to be because his scarf is missing. He hasn't worn it all day. So we suspect it's gone missing." England then waved at him. "Whatever the case is, just avoid him will you?" He paused. "And hurry up, will you?"

Alfred nodded. "Right right." And the door closed behind him.

England took this time to raise an eyebrow at Matthew. "I have a question to ask you first."

"... Yes?"

"You don't honestly _drink_ maple syrup, do you?"

"..."

- - -

Ivan paced the hallways, his hands knit behind his back. His eyes were narrowed and his face betrayed no emotions beyond his typical childish smile. A shadow was splayed over his eyes and he walked back and forth, the only indication that something else might be wrong... The combination of all this made his demeanour awkward, but somewhat frightening.

Russia had decided to leave the conference for the time being. He hadn't even been paying attention while there anyway, the constant reminder of his missing scarf because of the cool air against his neck kept him thoroughly distracted. It served to remind him that he had _lost his scarf_.

That had been the beginning of his foul mood, and after that, he just let it fester and get worse. That was entirely his fault though. He knew he shouldn't let something like that get to him, but it had been so _long_ since he last let those feelings sit and boil...

And it _was_ his scarf. His single most treasured object.

And despite feeling absolutely livid, of feeling upset over his lost scarf, there was a tingling glee and the back of his mind. Definitely, a portion of himself was enjoying this, and was itching to _do_ something with the mood he was given. To have some _fun._

He moved through his thoughts and stopped pacing when he heard the boots of a familiar country invade the hallway. Ah. America. What was he up to now? Perhaps he could indulge him with some entertainment... He watched the man to see what his actions were leading to...

... Only to find the nation in question standing right in front of him.

"... Yes?" Ivan asked pleasantly.

He noted how Alfred seemed to be more intimidated by him than usual. Perhaps his expression was betraying more than he thought.

"You're in front of the door," Alfred said, pointing to the door in question that Ivan was standing directly in front of; the door to the medical room if the sign was any indication.

Ivan followed the finger and he looked at the door. He then looked back at Alfred, slowly stepping away so that Alfred had reach of the handle to access the door. "Medical room, da? Did you get hurt?"

"No."

Ivan found himself disappointed at the news and he followed Alfred, which he was sure that America didn't want; all the more reason to do it. He watched Alfred begin to shuffle through the shelving.

"Someone else hurt?" He questioned hopefully.

"No..."

Ivan tilted his head. "Then why are you in here?"

"Does it matter?"

Ivan smiled his most cheerful smile. "It does because if you are not in here for yourself, or someone else, then you are probably stealing, yes?"

America stopped what he was doing and turned to Ivan. He hated, absolutely hated, being accused of being a thief and he narrowed his eyes. "I'm not _stealing_. Nobody is hurt. But Matthew is sick. So I'm trying to find something I can use to help..."

"Oh? Matvey?"

America turned back to his searches. "Yeah Mat_thew_," he enunciated.

"What are you looking for?"

Alfred grunted. "I can find it myself, thanks."

"But what are you looking for?" Ivan asked again, voice ever pleasant.

"... A thermometer."

Russia pulled open the door he stood next to and he produced a thermometer from it. He held it out with a smile. "Here."

America looked at him, looked at it, and then took the thermometer from the Russian's hands with a hastily-given thank you.

There was a long pause, and Alfred found himself stupidly blurting what he had been resisting in asking the whole time. "Where's your scarf?" he asked, a little too quickly.

Damnit, he told himself to resist.

Ivan's expression darkened, but the smile never left his face. He figured that America would ask, and this delighted and annoyed him at the very same time. "I do not know... Perhaps _you_ know where it is?"

Alfred swallowed and turned back to exploring the room, trying to focus on the fact that he couldn't find any medication that helped to lower fevers. He grabbed a cloth from the counter and started to look for a bowl.

"Um..." He finally started. "No... I have no idea."

"Mmn."

Alfred found a bowl, tucked it the cloth and the thermometer in his pockets and brushed past the taller man to leave the room. He was stopped short however when he felt a hand grab his coat and stop him.

"Tell me if you find it," Ivan said ominously. "Better tell me right away. I wouldn't want to accidently _mistake_ you for taking it." Russia warned then, with that sickening smile of his.

Alfred removed the grip and curtly nodded and decided it was high time for him to get the hell out of there.

Russia was left behind, chuckling in dark amusement at a few bits of new information revealed to him. He did so for only a moment before returning to festering his ill mood even more.

Oh he was going to have _fun_.

- - -

England adjusted the comforter that was laid atop of Canada carefully, sitting down at the chair at his bedside. "There... That should be better," he commented to his son. "You aren't uncomfortable are you?"

"No..." Matthew said tiredly. "I'm very comfortable, thank you," he replied, shifting so he was lying curled up on his side.

"You're welcome."

America barged through the door, holding the requested items.

"And the hero has gallantly returned, with items in tow, to save the day!" He announced proudly.

England rolled his eyes and he got up from his chair and he held out his hand, obviously requesting for the thermometer. Seriously, sometimes his son could be so... bizarre. Certainly didn't get it from _him _in the slightest. Francis, perhaps. No. Definitely. The man was completely and utterly mad, and it _did_ run in _his_ side family...

Alfred handed Arthur the instrument and asked, glancing at Matthew, and spoke quietly upon seeing that his eyes were closed, "So... how is he?"

"Hmn? Well, he's a little worse off than he was in the car. He's getting a little more out of it," he gestured to his head for good measure. "Though he claims he isn't nauseous, so I suppose he's better in that sense."

Alfred pointed to his own head in confusion. "Out of it? Is Mattie hallucinating?"

"Oh. No. But it's plain that the fever is starting to get to him."

He sat down in the chair. "Matthew..." He urged. "Open your mouth."

Canada's violet eyes fluttered open. "Mmn?"

"Open your mouth. I want to check your temperature. Tongue up." He instructed and he inserted the device, after shoving on a sanitary plastic sleeve that came with it. He ushered for Canada to close his mouth, keeping the thermometer in place under his tongue.

America watched Matthew close his eyes again and sink into the pillow, eyebrows furrowing.

"Yeah so... he's not going to get any sicker, is he? This is the limit right?" Alfred asked. "I mean, he's not just going to keep going downhill... right?"

Arthur found Alfred's plain worry amusing and he shook his head. "I don't know. But I doubt Matthew will get ill enough to warrant a trip to the emergency room. He already has what he needs here, and the people to provide it."

America swallowed. "... Hospital trip..."

"Oh come off it. I think he has the flu; the good old, common, run-of-the-mill flu. Mind, this is probably coupled with over-doing it, so he's coming worse-off than normal, but nothing life-threatening." Arthur made sure to point out, "And this is honestly a _flu_. Nothing tied to any event with his country."

America nodded, arms crossing.

Arthur heard a beep. "Ah. That was fast."

He tapped Matthew's chin to get him to open his mouth a little and he slipped the thermometer out.

He found a certain American peeking over his shoulder when he moved to read it.

"... 39.1 degrees Celsius," England murmured.

"... What?" Clearly, he didn't understand.

Arthur sighed, and repeated, "102.5 degrees Fahrenheit."

Alfred ran a hand through his hair. "Whew... That's a doozy of a fever then. Is that bad?"

"No. It's a little high, but, it's not dangerous in the slightest." England added, "Though, if it keeps rising like this, then we might have to phone a doctor on how to bring it down by better means. For now a cold compress or cool cloth will do the trick."

America produced the bowl and a towel. He held them out for his father to take.

"... Ah. Excellent."

The two set out in getting cold water, Canada back on his back and the cool cloth settled on his forehead.

They worked on changing the cold cloth several times, letting the time spill away slowly in order to tend to Canada instead. Who, as they did all this, was out completely; his face was heavily flushed, and he had finally, _finally_ succumbed to being sick.

After a half an hour of tending over him, England stood, readjusting a newly-cooled down cloth.

"I'm afraid that we have to leave soon," England stated. "We _are _in the middle of a conference," the man commented with a frown, looking at Alfred who was seated at the end of the bed. "And it'd be bad for us to miss the entire thing."

"And Matthew?" Alfred gestured.

"... Well, it's unavoidable that he'd miss the meeting now. However, at this point, I doubt very much he's going to be getting out of bed, so we can safely assume he'll be staying in here. I suggest we head back to the meeting."

"... And Matthew...?" Alfred restated.

"He'll be fine. We did manage to reduce his fever by a degree or so. Unfortunately for him, we _both _need to be present for at least _most_ of the meeting. No doubt they'll be questioning where we are now. We will return in a half our or so, mn?"

Alfred looked at his slumbering brother, watching Canada's heavier-than-normal breaths. He frowned. "Will he really be okay...?"

"Yes. He'll be _fine_ Alfred."

America then picked up Matthew's cellphone from his discarded coat on the recliner and put it on the bedside table. "There. I'm sure if he really needs something he'll text or phone one of us. Right? And I'll leave a note for him."

"... You don't really need..."

"Yes. I _do_," America pressed. "I have to. Because I don't want him to think we've walked out and forgotten about him when he wakes up. I mean, look what happened this morning." He gestured. "You sent him to bed, and probably told him to stay there, but he _knew_ you weren't going to come back!"

Arthur gave him a heated gaze, but Alfred continued. "Matthew _knew_ what happened; he knew that you weren't going to check on him, so he left!"

England grit his teeth in warning. "... Alfred..."

"Nuh-uh. I am _not_ letting that happen again. I want Matthew to understand that we're going to come _back_ for him. Okay? I don't want him to leave this room if he's that sick."

England sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Fine. Do what you must."

"I was going to anyway."

America rooted a piece of paper from his pocket and scribbled a note:

_Dear Canadian bro, _

_Sorry, but had to go to the meeting. We (England and awesome-Me) will be back to check on you though, we promise. So hold tight and just go back to bed and sleep. If you need anything just call either of us. If you can't get through, phone someone else, I'm sure they'll help you get a hold of us or something._

_- Love,_

_Alfred. _

_PS : If you're hungry at all, definitely text me, okay? Don't think it's a trouble or anything. I'll get you something. 'cause I'm a hero._

Alfred then settled the note underneath Matthew's glasses on the nightstand. "There," He said evenly and he sharply looked at England. "_Now_ we can go."

Arthur shook his head. "Now can we go?"

"Yeah."

And so they left.

- - -

Canada hummed softly in his sleep, feeling slumberland starting to slip away from his grasp. He was vaguely aware of a dream that lingered out of his reach, but he still mumbled in time with it, shifting on his side.

He felt a hand softly take his shoulder and push him back onto his back. Something cold pressed against his forehead, which pushed him further out of his dreamland, and a few words from that world escaped past his lips. "Mmm... score... ice..."

He breathed, feeling a shiver and a chill of cold, and the sudden pounding of reality beating against his temples. He groaned, putting his hands weakly there, only to have them pushed back down carefully by two gloved hands, and tucked back under the sheets.

"... Nmn... England...? America...?" Canada said hoarsely as he finally lifted out of his dream, squeezing his eyes tight before slowly fluttering his eyes open. He squinted blearily at the shape before him.

"No," they said simply.

"... Um..." Canada fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand and weakly got them on his face.

"Can you see better now, Matvey?" Russia asked with a smile, his head tilting to the side.

Canada's eyes widened and he sat up sharply, causing the world to spin before he felt Ivan's strong hands take a hold of his shoulders and usher him back down. Matthew groaned feeling his face heat up due to fever.

"Na, you are sick Matvey, you should not sit up," Russia said and he put the cold compress back on Matthew's forehead carefully.

Canada breathed, and he nodded, swallowing and opening his eyes again when the blurriness and dizziness left his mind. Why of all people was _Ivan_ in his room? He remembered something vaguely about England mentioning to his brother about avoiding Ivan... something about a bad mood about a... a... a...

He couldn't remember the details, but he also knew that he shouldn't be in the same _room_ as this man.

"You are sick Matvey," he repeated, "But I heard you speaking in your sleep, da? What did you dream about?"

Matthew looked back at the man. "U...uh... hockey... I think." He said slowly, still a little surprised on Ivan's presence in the room. "Yeah... definitely hockey."

"Hockey?" Russia smiled.

"Mmn," Canada relaxed, "You were in it, actually. I think I dreamt about it before. Uh..." he said, his voice a little quivery, "You... you lost the first game," he recalled, "But uh... you won the second game. The... dream I just had..."

"Oh? Dreaming about me?" He gave a cold chuckle that went unnoticed. He removed the cloth and moved to re-soak it in cold water. "What was the score?"

"Umn... First game was something silly..." Canada was wondering why the hell he was telling Russia all this. But he felt really loopy and off at that moment, so he decided to impart details on the man anyway. "... Like... 8-7..."

"Oh? You won this one?" Russia stated, putting the cloth back on Matthew's forehead.

"Yeah... But you whooped my ass the second game. Like... ridiculously so... 10-3 or something like that... I can't really remember the details so well..."

Russia continued to smile, coldly.

While Matthew saw Ivan as being attentive, caring and genuinely listening, Ivan knew he honestly didn't care in the slightest. All it served to be, with his current mood, was just fascinating and the intriguing opening that was presenting itself. Canada had completely lowered all defensives the moment he assumed he was in a pleasant mood. It was so very _interesting_. So he... played along with it. For now.

Canada's hockey rambling broke off when he came to the realisation about something, and he suddenly asked, "Why are you here?"

It was an innocent question. There were no accusations attached, and it was merely just an inquisitive gesture towards the taller man.

Ivan inclined his head and looked at Canada, his cold smile now visible to the bleary man. 'I should be asking you the same question, da? This is my room Matvey. Not yours."

A note of shock entered Canada and he blinked up at the Russian man. Wait... what?

Not to mention the sudden _chill_ that iced down his spine when Ivan's true mood and tone leaked through.

"H-huh...? Your room? I... but..."

He thought desperately, trying to confirm Ivan's claim, _was_ it actually Russia's? Getting to the room was just a blur to Canada's mind. He couldn't remember any exact details. Only that England and America were involved taking him there. Nothing more.

"I... I'm sorry if it is your room."

"Oh? And why are you in my room Matvey?"

"... I... England and America... They brought me here," he defended. "I... I don't really remember much of when that happened. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to take your room."

"Ah? Did not mean to?" Russia asked innocently, but Canada was very well aware of the coolness that was radiating off of Ivan. He definitely _was_ in a foul mood, that much was easy to see. "Then, if you did not mean to, you should not have a problem with leaving," he added cheerfully.

What?

Canada shifted. "I... Uh... I shouldn't..." He said. "I have to stay... England and America..."

"Mmn? Who cares? This is my room, right?" He said, taking a corner of the sheets and covers with his hands. "And I don't think they will be coming back."

Matthew's chest tightened slightly. "They'll come back... I kind of remember something about a note..." He turned his head to look at the nightstand.

Nothing but his cellphone and a glass of water sat there.

"..."

"What note?" Ivan asked.

"... I thought..."

The sheets were then torn off of him.

Canada felt a icy chill ripple up him when the blankets were yanked away. "A...ah!" He said in surprise.

The surprise was not unwarranted. Even if Russia seemed to be a bit off at times, he certainly would not be so cold normally as to mistreat someone so obviously ill as Matthew. But in _letting_ the foul mood, stemming from his lost scarf, fester, he only provided the window of which that made him capable of such cruelty once more.

Whatever the excuse may have been. He still did it.

Matthew's teeth chattered, and he pushed himself weakly up with his forearms. 'C...c...can I... I have that ba...back?"

"No."

"B-"

"I wish to use _my_ room Matvey. I am simply helping you leave it," his tone was cheerful, the ice that laced it was thick and unmoving.

Ivan found his target. He was venting his mood, anger and frustrations on Canada by the means of a cruel and unkind game. Just like pulling wings off of a fly.

"I...I... P-please let me stay," Matthew shivered. "Please? I-I didn't mean to t-take your room, bu-but please let me stay. I'll make it up to you later... I promise..."

"You do many things you do not mean to, da?" Russia commented idly. "I think you'd probably say you also did not mean to be in the chair this morning as well?"

"Yes! Of course." Canada nodded quickly, anything to get Russia to give those blankets back. "Exactly."

"Hmn... As I said, you do many things you do not mean to, Matvey." He pushed the blankets away from Canada, much to the smaller man's dismay. Ivan revelled in the defeated expression he received. "You probably also don't mean to be invisible?"

A low blow; especially to someone like Matthew. But he kept on going; the annoyance Ivan was feeling was starting to ebb away into enjoyment of this fun _game_ he was playing with this weak nation's emotions. "I do not think they will be returning. They left for the meeting a while ago. They have already forgotten."

Canada looked at Ivan, eyes slightly wide and he shook his head. "No... They'll come back. I... I'm sure there was a note," he said pathetically.

Amusing how he was clinging onto hope.

"You must have dreamed it up, Matvey, along with the hockey games and the scores." Russia then patted his shoulder, but Matthew felt no sympathy. "I am sure you do not mean to be so invisible. But you just are. So please leave, and don't worry about them coming back. Because they won't."

"But..."

"Give up, mn? They'll never come back for _you_."

Canada felt something crack at the back of his mind.

Something, somewhere, snapped. He was sick. He had a bad fever. He was being harassed. He was cold. He was insulted. To top it all off, he already had a pretty terrible day, and his mind just did not want to sit back and take it. Canadian nature to be damned and put to the stake.

He was going to take _action_.

Or so his fever mind told him to.

WHUMPH.

Something crashed into Ivan's face harshly. Even though the object in question was soft, the blow that was delivered wasn't a feather's touch, and every ounce of Canada's current strength had been put behind it.

Needless to say. Ivan never expected it.

"Oops," Canada said dryly, hot tears were bubbling at the corners of his eyes. "I didn't mean to."

Matthew wavered as Ivan stared at him stunned. He watched this _pathetic_ excuse for a country teeter, sitting up, cheeks looking more flushed than ever, his breaths coming in wheezes. In his grasp, Russia saw the offending pillow.

A snarl, and Russia stood, snatching Canada up roughly, eliciting a startled shout from the younger nation. He gathered him to his chest, but lacked any of the caring or softness that America had when he carried Matthew similarly before.

"That," Russia warned in a true dark tone, smiles gone, "Was incredibly stupid Matvey."

He decided he was going to _throw_ Canada out of the room. He only hoped he could listen to the sound of him hitting the other side. Any and all sympathy that he might have held for the younger nation had been swept up and thrown straight out the window; stolen by the wind and blown away.

Canada struggled, wheezing.

But before Russia could get a hand on the knob, the door flung open, inches away from Russia's nose.

An exuberant voice bellowed out, "Matthew! We're b-... What the hell!?"

"Don't yell you bloody git, Matthew is probably s-... The bloody hell!?"

America and England were standing at the door. Both looked appropriately stunned at the scene before them. Alfred's face quickly morphed into anger and accusatory protectiveness. England was not far behind.

Russia looked between the two countries, at Matthew in his arms, and looking Alfred in the eyes, his own purple ones narrowing, he opened his arms and just... Let go of Canada.

The younger nation hit the floor with a harsh thump.

"Matt!"

As England rushed down to the fallen Canadian, Ivan was given no time to revel in satisfaction, as something _far_ harder than a pillow cracked him in the jaw.

Russia staggered back, and spat blood, having bit the inside of his mouth when America's fist crossed his cheek. He wiped the red from his lips and seethed.

"What the fuck is _wrong with you?!_" America stepped over England and Canada. "Get the fuck out of here!"

"No."

America leered. "I said. Get. The. _Fuck_. Out. Of. Here."

"No."

"I'm going to fucking kick your ass," America grit.

Ivan's eyes narrowed again, and his hand moved away from his offended face. "You are willing to start a war over this? Between our countries?"

America flexed his hand. "No. I don't want to start a war, America to Russia."

Russia glared as America took a step forward and grabbed the front of his winter coat.

"I want to kick your ass. _Alfred to Ivan._"

* * *

**Author's Notes :**

Another huge chapter. I know. But I always follow the rule of, 'make it as long as it needs to be, not as long as you think it should be." Apparently this means my chapter needed to be over 7,000 words long. I never have written a chapter this long before.

Just so much I had to do!

Also, I apologize about Ivan's behavior. But you can completely attribute it to the fact that he just _let_ himself get like that. I've never seen Ivan as being completely right in the head, and this is my interpretation of that.

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**Chapter Five Preview : **Shit was going down. No-one was going to do that to _his_ brother and come out it safe and sound. And Matthew! Don't you _dare_ try to forgive Ivan! Stop it!

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Thanks for reading! Please read and review!

(Or become with Russia, da? :D)

* * *

AND THANK YOU TO ALL YOU AWESOME REVIEWERS.

See, I'd reply to each and every one of your reviews... but then I feel all embarassed about what to say. So I'll say this here : I honestly adore every one of your reviews. I've never had such long thought out ones so consistantly before and it's really awesome.

And a special thanks to the few of you thank take the TIME to write so far for each chapter. THANK YOU SO MUCH.

I hope I put in sufficient Ivan for you. (You know who you are).

THANK YOU.


	5. Le aMoose

**Disclaimer of this Chapter :** There is still swearing. I think it's safe to assume that England and America will continue to swear. I apologize if it offends, but I won't be removing it. Thanks.

**Ownership :** Still don't own Hetalia. Though I happened by pure luck to find an England plushie in my mall... And I purchased him. However, it doesn't give me any rights over the fandom.

**Important Note :** ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down a nation in question. This is based off of characterizations, and not the countries involved. Thanks very much.

* * *

I am putting this here! I am so sorry for this chapter being late. I actually have _reasons_ and not excuses. One, I have a full time job. Not a lot of time for chapter writing sometimes. Two, Easter Weekend. Three, irony of all ironies... I got sick. Karma, or something.

Anyway. I promise to try to write the next chapter faster. However, I won't compromise quality for speed. (So if it takes longer so it's good, then it'll take longer)

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**Chapter Five Summary : **A stare down. What will become of _this_? They surely can't make it an all-out war, else that'd be bad. However, sometimes there are worse things than fighting. Poor judgement... for one...

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**- Chapter 5 - Le a-Moose- **

It was a bitter cold faceoff with a ring of flames surrounding them. Narrowed, darkened, and shadowed out purple eyes tried to burn holes into bright, crackling icy blue ones. Eyebrows furrowed, fists clenched, and the light creak of leather sounded as Alfred adjusted his vice-grip on the front of Ivan's coat. He grit his teeth, blowing air out of his nose, feeling the anger rise from his chest and straight to his head.

Russia's hand snapped out, grabbing onto the front of America's jacket, and he tugged him forward, a cruel smirk forming on the Russian's lips as he spoke coldly, "You do not have the upper hand, even though you have such brutish strength." He tilted his head slightly. "Do not get a head of yourself."

Alfred growled at him, but did not yet make any movements to hit him, or to lash out at him in anger. Despite his promise to do so, he had a few chains of hesitation around his wrists and chest; he couldn't _yet_ find himself ready to actually attack the man. Not yet. Instead, he hardened his gaze, tightening his grip and he pulled Ivan even closer.

Their faces were mere inches apart.

"This is so amusing," Ivan commented, the smirk widening his grin to a far more creepy level, the shadows nearly shading out his eyes. "You are being so _protective_," he commented with a note of importance. "It is very amusing. Highly amusing."

Alfred just didn't like a single word that came out of the man's mouth.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He hissed in return.

"So _protective_ over Matvey. So strange, no? This does not seem very much like you Amerika," he said smoothly, as if they weren't right then locked in each other's grips, faces only inches apart. "I would expect you to go on your merry way back to the meeting, da? Perhaps eat the sludge you attempt to call food, right? This is all so very disappointing."

That felt like a sharp blow to the gut and the way Alfred's face tensed, eyebrows furrowing more, was a clear indication of that.

Ivan smirked like a bastard.

"What the hell would I do that?" Anger rose within him. "Matthew is my _brother_."

"Is he? I sometimes forget. Though, I suppose you forget more often then I do, da?"

Alfred snapped, "He's my _brother_ Damnit!"

He got a simple retort in return, "I think you are a very poor brother."

That did it. The chains that bound his want to pummel the man fell away and he launched towards Ivan, aiming for the Russian's face.

Before he could make contact, Ivan's hand caught the fist, he swiftly moved to the side, and using America's momentum as his aid, managed to _fling_ America behind himself, sending the man stumbling into the room behind them.

Alfred crashed into a chair and he fell head-over-heels into the recliner that was just behind it. He was quick to recover though, scrambling off of the furniture and whirling around sharply, all to glare with all his might at the Russian man.

Who, with a dark smirk, kicked the door shut behind him, effectively cutting them off from the stunned England and Canada, and walked up to Alfred, his boots making a heavy sound even against carpeted flooring.

America straightened his pose, taking a stance that was prepared for anything that Ivan wanted to throw his way.

He bit out, "You're really fucked up in the head, you know that? What the fuck is _wrong_ with you? You fucking _asshole_; who the fuck tries to hurt someone who's _sick_!?"

Ivan stopped a few feet away from Alfred, he didn't respond. He just... stood there.

Alfred felt ripples tingle up his spine and he suppressed a shudder that wanted to escape past his lips. Instead, he occupied them with yelling at the man before him:

"It's just a fucking _scarf_, where the fuck did you get the concept in the ice-box of a brain of yours," he gestured to his head, "That harassing someone else was the way fucking to _deal_ with these things?"

Still no response.

"It's not like they are going to _bleed_ you a new scarf!"

Russia's hand was suddenly around America's throat and with a gag, the man was pulled towards Ivan.

"That sounds like a lovely idea, Amerika. Would you like to see if you can weave me a new scarf then?" His eyes narrowed again, and the cruel smirk once more marred his expression. "I think I'd like a new, _red_, scarf."

"Ggk..." Alfred struggled, putting both of his hands on the massive one that was clenched around his windpipe.

The door slammed open all the sudden, causing the two nation's attention's turn sharply to address the sound.

There was a cry, and before any of them could really react, Russia found himself unexpectedly just _slamming_ sideways into the floor. His head nearly cracked on a nearby table, and his hand released Alfred's neck the instant that the other body made impact with his own.

"_Matthew!_" England cried from the doorway.

Canada panted, unable to find the strength to pry himself _off_ of the man that he just bowled over. Everyone, including Russia, was staring at him, astounded.

"Don't... fight..." Canada managed between breaths, his cheeks feeling like they were now ablaze, even to himself, his eyes dully focusing on the Russian man beneath him. "... Please..."

Ivan _snarled_. In one motion he grabbed Canada by the wrist and stood up, effectively hoisting the smaller man into the air by one arm.

"A... _Ahh!"_

His grip was too tight; Matthew felt his wrist painfully pulling in a very wrong direction, and the small delicate bones inside grinding against one another. But before America could launch a counter-attack on Russia, Ivan let go of Canada, letting him once again drop mercilessly on the floor. Alfred's attack diverted to catching his brother instead; before he cracked his head on a nearby table.

Ivan was appalled on how quick the American and Englishman went to the Canadian's aid. Such a pathetic and weak nation. So completely and utterly useless. A waste of space. Space that could be better _used_.

Oh well. _That_ was something to be fixed at a future date. For now? He had no use with them anymore. The game was no longer fun.

Dark aura still around him, and no further motive to do anything else, he turned and left the room before either Alfred or Arthur noticed their attentions where wholly focused on Matthew.

Arthur was holding onto Matthew's assaulted arm, and America was trying to help Matthew up, so he could better carry him. As Alfred adjusted him, Matthew's weight became awkward, and he slumped, dead weight, into America's arms; suddenly falling unconscious, the world blackening.

"M... Mattie!"

He wasted no time, hoisting the limp weight of his brother upward, and heaving him onto the bed. Without another word, or glance backward, he stormed past England and to the door.

"... Alfred! _Where the blazes do you think you are goi_-"

The door slammed shut.

"-ing..."

Alfred dashed down the hallway, his boots making a terrible echoing racket as the sound reverberated off of every wall. He stormed down the passage, searching for the purple-eyed, tall-ass, fucking _bastard_. He had an air of determination, and didn't even register other nations that he blew straight past in his pursuit for justifiable _revenge_.

He spotted the Russian man down one of the hallways and his boots squeaked on the linoleum as he sharply turned to barrel down it.

Arm cocked back, skidding to a stop, he put everything he had behind his fist, and just sent it towards Ivan.

Ivan should have considered himself lucky that when pissed off as badly as America was, his aim was terrible, and he only managed to half-catch the Russian's shoulder, before his hand slid off and impacted the wall behind him.

Needless to say, Russia still hit the wall as well, hard.

The sickening crunch that either his shoulder or the wall made was satisfying all the same.

"Fucking bastard! I am going to _kill you_ and they are going to have to find a _new representative of Russia_!"

Alfred then lashed out to send the man another punch, but his fist was just _barely_ halted to a screeching stop, a few millimeters away from Ivan's nose.

In all his fury, and in Ivan's surprise, neither had heard the shouts from the very large German man that Alfred had blazed past in the hallway. Ludwig was _holding _Alfred's arm back with all his might, all his strength and bodyweight having to be put into the saving maneuver, having just _barely_ stopped America from dishing out a presumably deadly blow. He wasn't sure if Alfred had meant that he would actually try to _kill_ Ivan, but he wasn't about to take the chance.

"Fuck! Let go of me!" America struggled. "Fucking let go!"

"_No_," Germany stated sharply. "Not unless you're going to put your hand down."

"Oh I'll fucking put it down alright. I'm going to put it down right _after_ I demolish his sorry fucking ass!"

Russia smirked, his hand holding onto his shoulder and his back still against the wall. Bits of plaster coated his side, as the cracked wall rained particles down upon him from the large impact crater caused by America's fist.

One hand on America's wrist, the other wrapped around Alfred's waist and Germany started to physically pull the American away from the Russian man, grunting as Alfred was not so much as even budging an inch.

"America. You are making a very poor decision right now!" German grunted. "Think about what you are doing. This is very stupid!"

"Stupid? _Stupid_? At least I have a _reason_ to want to sock this fucking commie in the face. Unlike him!" He pointed now with that hand. "He just goes out and harasses extremely sick people when he's missing a fucking rag! He's a sick twisted bastard, and I'm doing everyone a favor when I say I am going to force the world-order to create a new 'representative' of Russia!"

"Alfred!" Germany growled. "Stop!"

"No!"

"Violence like this isn't going to _solve anything_. I don't know exactly what you _mean_ but if he has done anything, regardless of what he has done, you cannot solve violence or petty attitude with the same! It breeds more of it, and we live in a time where we are trying to get over our differences. We are trying to breed _peace_. Not _war!_"

"Germany is right, da?" Russia said slowly, the tinge of amusement once again making for troubling features across Ivan's face. "It's best you don't get too hasty, America. You do not wish to start a war."

Alfred glared. "I already told you. I am not going to do this, America to Russia. I am going to kick your fucking ass. _Alfred to Ivan_."

The entire hallway became icy. "Whoever said I _agreed _to those terms? Those are rules _you_ implied..."

Germany faltered at the tone, America followed suit, his fist lowering. The aura that Ivan just gave off was so sinister, so dark, so goddamn creepy, that they thoroughly believed, without a doubt, that Russia would, in his mood, be willing to start an entire _war_ over this.

Not just a spat between two representative. But a full out. Full blown... _war_.

Ludwig relaxed his grip as soon Alfred stopped pulling against him.

"Tch." America sounded and he glanced at the shoulder that Ivan held. "I sure hope I smashed it."

He whirled on his heels and brushed past Germany, and past Italy who was watching it all, hidden and protected, from around the corner.

Ludwig was torn for a moment, between the retreating man, and between Ivan. But one glance at the Russian's face, and he knew exactly where his attentions should preferably lie. He gave Russia a serious nod then turned on his heels as well, quickening his pace to catch up with Alfred. Feliciano made quick steps to follow after Germany as well, not wishing to be left alone in the same hallway as Ivan...

"America," Germany started, falling in line with the American. "America, what happened? Is there a _reason_ why you felt it was necessary to start a fight?"

Alfred was still pissed, but Ludwig was relieved to see that it seemed to be waning now that he was away from the other man.

"He hurt Matthew."

"... Who?"

America's eyebrow gave a twitch, but he breathed and let it go. "Canada. My brother."

Ludwig dug through his mind and was having trouble coming up with a mental image. It took a few seconds, but the name finally rung a bell with him and he looked up again, recognition now evident. "Ah! Yes."

"Ne? He hurt... Canada?" was the first thing that Italy said, peering at America from a safe distance behind Germany. Just in case.

"Yes. Bastard. Matthew is sick. We were at the meeting, letting Mattie sleep, and the fucking bastard decided it'd be just fine and dandy to go in the room and _harass_ him!" Alfred shoved a hand on his pocket and gestured with his brutalized one. "Who _does_ that! I wasn't about to let that stand! That's why I was going to do the world a favor and rid it of that creepy mother f-"

Germany cut him off because frankly his attitude was freaking the Italian out. Feliciano had taken to gripping the hem of his shirt tightly.

After a moment of silence, Feliciano spoke again. "... Is he okay? Canada, I mean."

Alfred stopped. "I don't really kn- He swore. "Shit. Canada," Alfred growled at himself. "I didn't even... He passed out right after Ivan left so I just put him on the bed and followed... Crap."

A second later, and the American was already jogging back down the hallway.

- - -

Arthur was tending to Matthew, who was still out cold. It was worrisome, but not as worrisome as how red his son's wrist was getting or how hot his forehead felt after an a quick inspection. He could not panic though, he decided, everything could be handled with a calm, cool and rational attitude and demeanor. No reason to fly off the handle.

He had gently tucked Matthew back into bed, but stripped it off several of the sheets and covers. He couldn't let Canada overheat, so he left just enough that Matthew could feel a cocoon of warmth, without smothering him with his own fever.

He was seriously thinking maybe phoning a doctor or the hospital was a good idea...

"That was an awfully idiotic thing to do, you know," England chastised the silent nation, though not meaning a single word of it. "Tackling the brute like him. It's nearly as intelligent as deciding to run headlong into a brick wall."

He tucked the blanket around a few edges and he smoothed it out carefully. "Really... it's something I'd have expected from your brother."

He located some cool packs in the tiny in-room freezer/refrigerator, and after wrapping them in thin towels, he placed them underneath Canada's arms.

He sighed and put the cold cloth back on his forehead. "You ran yourself right to ragged, didn't you? You'll come around soon enough, I'm sure." He said to the still-out country, "I wonder how long you were sick before you noticed? I suppose you are the type to not notice these things until it's too late..."

He was just talking to himself, really, there was no way Matthew was listening, but he spoke regardless.

"And don't get me started on your idiotic brother. I'd go after him, but you're currently my priority. If he goes out and gets himself killed, then it's neither your or my fault. I only hope that he will have the decency to come back as a ghost and apologize for being such an idiot," he snuffed.

As if orchestrated by a higher being, the door slammed open.

"I'm sorry!" Alfred's loud voice followed as he dashed in the room quickly, holding his leather gloves in one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. "I'm so sorry!"

Arthur's expression flattened and he turned to his other son. "... Died, did we?"

"Ye-... huh what? No. What are you talking about?" Alfred raised en eyebrow, but shook off the expression. "Never mind! Look, is Mattie okay? He's not hurt, is he? Is he okay?"

He approached the side of the bed worriedly, frowning when he saw Matthew's flushed and pale face, and the presence of extra cold packs on his person.

"Oh he's just _peachy_," Arthur said, voice heaving with sarcasm, "In fact, he requested of me that he wants to go frolicking in a field of daisies with you." He gestured for good measure.

"... What."

"Of _course_ he's not okay you git!" England thwacked him upside the head with the end of the cold cloth. "You idiot! Why did you go running off like that and head-first into danger! It's like bloody teasing a bear! You ran off while I had to deal with your _unconscious_ brother who may or may not have an injury on _top_ of a bloody raging fever!" Arthur raged. "Not a word of warning, you went chasing off like the goddamned hero you think you are!"

"Hey!" Alfred gripped the back of his head, "Ow! Watch it!"

"And another thing! If you think your pompous hero attitude will help anything, it _won't_. You should have bloody let Ivan be and out of his way. Yes, I rather wanted to do the same to him, but look where this ended up," he pointed at Matthew.

His eyes flicked to America's bloodied hand.

"Oh good _lord_." He took it. "What did you do, hit a wall?"

"... Eh... kinda..."

He thwapped him upside the head once more. "Idiot!"

"Ow! Ow!" Alfred rubbed the back of his head. "Okay! I'm sorry! Geeze! Stop with the hitting already!"

He growled and let go of America's hand. He sighed, his tone lightening some, but remaining strict and parental. "Go run that under cool water to reduce the swelling. There are some cold packs in the small freezer, and I want you to _wrap_ it so you don't get an infection on top of all your idiocy."

"But what about Ma-"

"_Now_."

Alfred jeered and he pouted. "Okay okay... Geeze. What crawled up your ass...?" He muttered and he turned to go do as he was told. "I'm a grown country you know..."

England ignored the statement, despite the urge to state he severely doubted Alfred's last statement, and he re-wet and rung out the cloth before gingerly placing it on Canada's forehead.

"Honestly I am surprised you're even related," he commented idly to the unconscious other.

America took his time in washing out his hand, watching the red-tinged water flow down the drain and he made sure to disinfect it, which hurt like a _bitch_ he would like to add, and wrapped it up nicely. Since it was only his knuckles, he slipped his glove overtop of that.

"There," he flexed his hand, "good as new."

He re-entered where his brother and father were.

He asked, this time quieter. "... So ... How _is _Matthew...?"

England was leaning over his younger son, back of his hand pressed to his forehead worriedly, and he clearly didn't hear the other. America didn't speak though, actions spoke louder than words, and watching Arthur's forehead crease in such a manner told him that Matthew wasn't exactly holding up very well.

He cleared his throat lightly and stepped up to the other side of the bed and held up his hand. "Look. I cleaned it all up and everything. It's fine." He lowered it and looked down at Canada. "... So ... What do we do now?"

England replaced the cloth, sat back, and sighed. He didn't look at Alfred, "Well at least you cleaned it up." He paused, "... And I'm not exactly sure. To be honest, I have no recollection of Matthew ever being this ill."

"... Yeah, me neither..."

Arthur suddenly felt a twist of guilt. He looked at Canada and suddenly wanted to _pray_ that the reason they had never seen him that way before was because he never _had_ been like that before. Not because they had never noticed.

Countries couldn't just simply die from afflictions like the one that Matthew was sporting. When it came down to colds or illnesses that they caught like a normal human being, it couldn't kill them, no matter how severe. But if a 'cold' or 'illness' came about due to an economic change of some sort, then that had the chance to be murderous.

They would've heard something if something was wrong with Canada country-wise, and something like that wouldn't just suddenly crop up.

... That thought didn't help in his worries.

Because that meant he could have been severely ill before, and nobody ever _knew_ it, and it wasn't like Matthew would've died from it. He'd just have suffered through it until he _eventually_ got better. Alone.

Alfred was watching his father's expressions change from thought to thought, knowing where the line of thinking was going because he too was thinking near the same lines. He spoke up, "Hey, England, you look kind of tired. Maybe you should go back to the meeting..."

England's head snapped to America. "Back to the meeting, are you bloody insane? When he's like this?"

"I don't mean _abandon_ him, but you've done a lot already. Go back to the meeting and take a break from it all. Recharge your batteries."

"Are _you _his parent then? Are _you _going to watch over him in my stead?"

America faltered. There had been a reason why he did phone England in the first place. If he felt like he could take care of Matthew alone, he would have. But he couldn't.

"... I ..." Then a thought hit him. "... Then get France," he stated. "He doesn't even _know_, and you know that he's going to go into some floral tirade if he wasn't told of Mattie being like this..."

England rippled slightly at that and he glowered. Call that man? So he could be _alone_ in the room with a perfectly helpless Canada? How could he let such a lecherous and frankly _incompetent_ man take care of an ill country?

Before he continued in such negative thoughts, he found himself sighing. Despite wanting all of that to be true, the fact was, France dearly loved Matthew, and he'd do anything and everything for him when the time arose. Sure, sometimes Francis did more than questionable things, but when it came to his children; his motive really could not be questioned. As much as England had to oh-so begrudgingly admit.

"Then I shall retrieve Francis," England finally agreed. "But," he held up a hand before America could speak further, "I am only going to go to the meeting to get notes on whatever we missed, inform others of the situation about Ivan, and of Matthew, of course, then I will come back."

America nodded.

"_You_ stay here and watch Matthew while I do so. When Francis comes, you make the choice whether or not to stay with Canada after the fact, but I don't want you to leave the room, or _think_ of leaving the room until one of us returns."

"Be-fucking-lieve me. I'm not going to budge from his bedside."

"Good," England stood up. "Then I give you the chair."

With no further motions made between the two, England swiftly departed, leaving Alfred with his brother, and the hope that Ivan didn't hold grudges.

- - -

Matthew felt like he was swimming in a sea of slime. Thick, sticky and hindering any movements he tried to make. Every effort of doing a single stroke in the murky black sea felt a thousand times slower, and one push felt like he had to move a one hundred kilo weight along with it.

The world meshed around him as if it was a part of the slime, slipping and sliding by in unrecognizable trails that slipped out of his view and off into the distance. Sounds were equally as hard to understand; it could have just been the sound of the black sea around him...

At first, it seemed sort of comfortable and normal that he was in the black sea of slime, he wasn't distressed with the concept of being stuck under it's waves or hindering presence, but he found himself pushing to the top of it nevertheless, still seeking a breath of fresh air.

Sounds sounded a little clearer as he pushed upwards.

"...ieu..." was a twittery sound he received. "Mo... pe... Ma..."

Then he broke the surface and his eyes slid open to a fuzzy and headache-inducing world of light and colour.

"... attieu..." A hand touched his cheek. "Mathieu... Mon petite, wake up..."

Canada was surprised at the groan that escaped his lips, and of his eyes closing again. He felt something cool drip across his forehead that forced his eyes to pry open again.

A man's face came into fuzzy view, blonde hair much like his own, tied back loosely in a black ribbon. Deep blue eyes looked down at him, crinkled with worry.

"Mon petite! There you are," France said when he saw violet eyes lamely focus on him. He reached for his son's glasses and slipped them on. "You had me worried. I did not think you were going to wake up."

Matthew found himself nodding, though really not understanding the use of doing so.

A hand cupped one of his cheeks. "How are you feeling? You look like death," he said, "You are so pale! I hope that death doesn't decide to sweep you off your feet. Whatever you do Mathieu, don't let yourself be seduced by a man in a black cloak, no? It would pain me."

What...?

"Fr-fran-ance I..." he was surprised by how thick and croaky his voice was. He made efforts to clear it as he was leaned up so he could take a few refreshing sips of water.

He spoke again, voice marginally better, "I... I'm okay."

Matthew was offered more water and he did not refuse, he took a few heavy swallows of it gratefully, only just aware of how dry his lips and throat felt.

"I'm okay now," Canada managed to repeat. "I'm s-sorry if I worried you..."

France watched him with pursed lips then quietly helped him to sit properly and he offered him more water, watching him as Matthew gratefully took more sips from the glass before handing it back. With a sweeping gesture, he put the glass back on the nightstand.

"Of course I'd be worried, why did you not tell me you were ill?" He questioned gently. "I would have been at your side in a instant to help you, mon petite."

"... Well ... It's... Not like I really told anyone," Matthew admitted. "A-alfred just ended up... Um... Seeing the brunt of it, and he phoned England... I think."

"What!? You were trying to hide being ill!?"

"W...what?" he jumped, "No! No definitely n- _mmff!"_

He was finding himself sufficiently smashed into France's chest as he was being hugged tightly by the man. It was a rather paternal gesture, of love and caring for his 'poor child', but it didn't make said gesture any more comfortable.

"Oh Mathieu! You do not need to hide these things! We will take care of you, mon petite, and nurse you till you are better! You do not have to take it upon yourself in order to get better, no? No! We will watch you and you shall get better and all shall be well." He was still hugging Canada tightly. "Oh... I wonder how long you have been hiding it..."

"Mmfg..." Canada wiggled to a more comfortable (and breathable) position. "... P...papa," He said finally, "I wasn't _hiding_ it... I just didn't think... think I was that sick..."

"Even worse!" He squeezed.

Matthew wanted to sigh. There was just no getting through to this man, was there?

He finally felt himself being released and put back into a reclining position.

"... Oh I am sorry Mathieu, I am just over-excited with worry, no?" He frowned. "You have _such _a high fever. But I am overjoyed you are awake now, especially after I heard what happened."

Canada questioned, "... happened? What happened...?"

"You do not remember?" France asked with a shocked and eve more worried expression, his hand pressed against Matthew's forehead. "Mon dieu... per'aps your fever is worse then I thought..." he spoke, his accent slipping.

Canada didn't have any of that and brushed it away. "What happened?" He asked again.

"... You do so very _very _warm... Though I can't tell if it's worse..." He said to himself but stopped when he felt Matthew's intent stare. "... You really do not remember the incident with Russia?"

Russia... Russia... Had something happened with Russia... His mind scraped and dug untill a flicker of recollection turned into a full-blown memory. "Oh! Ivan!"

Francis' expression turned sour and he agreed with an equal tone, "Yes. Ivan." He gently then took Matthew's wrist. "How does this feel Matthew?"

It was the first time that Canada had actually noticed that his wrist had been wrapped. How could he miss that? He could barely move it with how it had been bound, and when he thought of it, there was a flickering pain that ran through when he twitched his fingers.

This surprised him, and France clearly saw that.

"It is disgusting! When I arrived, after l'Angleterre 'ad beckoned me," France said, accent slipping again as his temper became heated, "Your brother, l'Amerique, told me what 'appened! I was appalled! I took to wrapping your wrist right away. I could see that it was clearly injured." He added with a point of upset, "I will not forgive 'im for 'arming you."

"Calm down," Canada supplied and he gently put his arm back down. "... It doesn't hurt really. I... I remember... Ivan was upset..."

"... Because 'e lost that silly scarf!" France added with outrage. "That stupid scrap of fabric!"

If Matthew had been any other person, he would have identified with France, England and America. The thing was? He _wasn't _any other person, he was Canada. He was Matthew, and he was also somewhat surprised by what he found himself saying:

"... He couldn't help it."

France blinked at Canada. "Could not... 'elp it?"

"No... He... he had lost his scarf. That's the point," Matthew said, laying back a little more as his body began to demand it. "H-his scarf is something pre-precious to him... It deeply upset him."

France retorted, "But that is _no_ good reason to-"

"But it still _is_ the reason," Matthew pointed. "I... I can't blame him... I...I mean I _wouldn't _do the same thing..." His head hit the pillow finally. "... B... But I can understand _why_ he was like that... Wh...where he was.... getting at... com... coming from..."

France wanted to splutter his retorts but stopped at Canada's movements and tone.

"... Mathieu... You surely do not forgive him for what he had done..." He asked, softer, hand on his son's forehead in a comforting matter.

Did he? Did he forgive him? Matthew thought about that and was rather surprised by the answer.

"Yes."

There was no hesitation. It was the truth then. He, Matthew Williams, completely forgave Ivan. Despite all that he had done to the Canadian man. He forgave him. Completely.

France sighed, he knew there was no arguing with Canada. The man was so forgiving when it came to certain things, perhaps too much. He forgave easily for being forgotten. Apparently he also forgave people who needlessly verbally and physically assault him too. Though he had no proof of the former, he could only guess that'd be the case with Ivan.

In a way, he wasn't really surprised that Matthew forgave Ivan, but he had expected more of a time delay between the incidents and his forgiveness.

What he was surprised about was Canada's next question.

"... Is Ivan okay?"

Francis froze and he looked at Canada with a look utter of surprise. "..."

"... I _mean _it... I... Is he okay? Where is he...?"

Francis answered, "... I do not know. Last I heard," he said evenly, his accent improving again, "He was moping around outside the meeting hall, scaring everyone who walked past. I'm _sure_ he is alright."

"... Hmn..."

France then gave a sharp gesture. "Enough talk of that man! You may forgive him, but I do not! And I am sure l'Amerique and l'Angleterre both agree!" He took a breath. "I'd rather focus on _you_."

He didn't let Matthew speak though, and he asked, standing from his spot in the chair next to the bed. "... Are you hungry, Mathieu? I heard from l'Amerique that you have had some... ah... _trouble_ holding things down, I can only assume then that you must be hungry."

Canada found himself flushing out of embarrassment over that. He wished he could forget the whole 'throwing up' episode starring himself and his brother.

"If you are hungry, then that is a good thing!" France brightened, "If you get something down, then it will be easier for you to get better faster, yes? Are you hungry, mon petite?"

He wasn't sure, he was still groggy from just getting up, and his stomach maybe went numb after all the violent heaving he made it do. "I could try... to eat something."

Francis smiled brilliantly. "Excellent! I shall fetch something for you then. Do not worry, mon petite, I will fetch something that will not harm your poor stomach. Something easy to eat, non? So I might take a short while," he made a gesture with his hand, "But it will be better that way, non?"

Matthew smiled. "... Th... thank you..."

"Now, don't tell l'Amerique or l'Angleterre that I am leaving you for a few moments, alright?" France offered all the sudden. "I do not wish for them to yell at me when I am attempting to help you."

"... Why would they - "

"_They_ are too uptight about Ivan, and while I believe he is dangerous, he is not so _stupid_ to do something like that again. You will be fine. I am going to lock the door anyway, alright mon petite?"

Canada nodded, "Oui..."

France gave a large smile in return for the French response, and he gently ran a hand through Matthew's hair before turning to do as he said he was to do.

He bid him a temporary goodbye and shut the door.

Matthew found himself in sudden silence, and he rolled over onto his side. His mind was still off, the heat of his fever warping his thoughts, and he did not seem to mind at the moment about the 'trouble' he was causing for England, America and now France. Normally he would have, but at the moment, that thought was far from his mind.

Instead, he kept finding himself thinking about Ivan, and what happened.

Maybe it just was the fever talking, but Canada sincerely felt bad for Ivan.

Some little part of him scolded him and told him that no, no he shouldn't be feeling guilty or bad or feeling any sort of sympathy for the Russian man, that he deserved whatever he got because he took it all out on him with little to no reason at all. But despite that, he couldn't help but _feel bad_.

He knew that scarf was important to Ivan. He didn't know the full story behind it, but he knew it was precious to the man because he has never recalled an occasion where the man would have been without it. And if he could, there was some important reason that it wasn't there. The fact that it was gone now was unnerving, and upsetting. Even to _him_ and he wasn't even the one that owned the silly thing!

As he lay there, he mulled it over, worrying about how Ivan felt, and wondering if there was anything he could do about it.

'_And it's so cold outside too_,' Matthew thought with a shiver and he turned over to his other side, curling into his blankets. '_I bet he... I bet he can feel all the breezes against his neck and it keeps reminding him... I bet... I bet it's bothering him so much... I want to help...'_

He frowned. He had to do _something_.

_'I want to help...'_

With a soft sigh, he buried his face in the pillow and wondered what he _could_ do.

An idea suddenly came to him. He pushed himself up from the mattress.

"Oh!" He said with a note of slow realization. "I... I could do that..."

Canada looked at the door.

"... T... that should definately help..."

- - -

"- And so I basically told the fucker that I was going to smash his face in and make a new representative of Russia," America said, flexing his injured hand.

"... My god, are you trying to get everyone killed?" England asked shaking his head as he walked out of the room with Alfred. "Well I'm glad you left _that _out of the meeting when you mentioned what happened between you two. I'd _hate_ to think of what the others would've thought..."

"Ppft. Like that really matters," America said, crossing his arms and giving a smirk. "As long as the big guy knows where his place is in the world, then I don't really care."

Arthur shook his head again then pointed. "How about we go to the small... kitchen area? Well, whatever it is, I know there's a place in this building where we can get food, so how about we fetch something for Canada before we head back."

Alfred swore and smacked his forehead. "Aw shit. Mattie."

England rose his eyebrow and he wondered what he was... oh.

"... Bloody _hell_."

"You got _that _right."

England smacked a hand to his face and groaned, "... We completely forgot to mention him in the whole meeting, didn't we?"

Alfred sighed, hanging his head slightly. "... Yeeeep."

England's eyebrow twitched and he turned, trying to wave it off. "No matter! We'll inform them of his absence later! Perhaps it is for the best, you know how _nosey_ some of these nations can get, and frankly I think having Francis involved is _enough_ for the poor boy."

Alfred still felt bad. Wow. Major brain fart there. Was talking about how Ivan had done injustice, but failed to mentioned to whom the injustice was done. Or the fact that Canada was sick. Or the fact he wasn't in the room... Or the fact that... Holy shit was Matthew really that invisible?

"... Let's just get some of that food..." he sighed.

"Yes. Quickly too. The idea of that Frenchman in the same room as him makes my stomach ill. It's bad enough I already know he'd coddle him, but he's so perverted I wonder what _else_ he'd to to the poor boy..."

Alfred shook his head, "I highly doubt he'd _do_ anything to Mattie. He'd joke about it, yes, or he'd pretend... but really he's trying to, as he'd say it, spread the awareness of... of... L.... Le a-Moose or whatever he calls it."

"... L'Amour Alfred."

"Yeah that."

England sighed and pushed open the door to the small room that had very basic foodstuffs for nations to grab in a pinch. "My goodness are you aware of any other nation but yours-"

He stopped.

"..."

"..."

"... What the _bloody fuck_ are you doing here!?"

France jumped a mile and dropped a bag he was holding as he had been rifling through a cupboard.

"A...Ah! Do not _do_ that!" He cried after his heart stopped trying to burst out of his ribcage. France was gasping, his hand against his chest in a freaked manner. "What are you trying to do? Kill me?"

England glared and he stomped up to France. "Oh I am going to fulfill that wish, believe you me."

Francis took a step back. "Ma petite fleur rouge! Calm yourself! Slow breaths! What is the matter l'Angleterre?"

America stepped up beside Arthur, and France was more than surprised to see _Alfred_ looked ticked too. He had expected for the other man to just be as confused as he was. But no, the other was sharing the very same expression.

"You _know_ what's the matter," America said shortly.

England added, "_What_ did we tell you? What very simple instruction did we give your sorry French behind?"

"... To... Watch... Mathieu..."

England urged. "And..."

"... Not ... to... Leave... Him...?"

"... And where are you right now?" he demanded.

France looked between them. "... Fetching Mathieu something to eat."

"... And where is he?"

"In the room..."

"... And why the bloody fuck are you not _with_ him you great toad!" England said, wanting to smack him upside the head in the same manner that he had to Alfred. "We told you, that _under no circumstances_, you were to leave the room!"

"I... I left only a few minutes a-"

"- A few minutes is all it _takes_. Mr. Heroic here has probably pissed Ivan off beyond all recognition and the last thing we need is for his last _target_ to be vunerable!"

"I locked the door!"

England growled. "It doesn't _matter_. You still left him behind! It's a bloody _door_ not a steel fortress!"

America grabbed one of France's arms. "Come on. Let's continue this on the way to Mattie's room. And god help you Frenchie if Ivan paid Mattie a visit."

With splutters and French demands that the taller man let go, France found himself being physically dragged away from the small store room and down the hall. England and America would have none of it, so Alfred never relented on his grip, and they just kept pulling him towards Canada's room.

When they stopped in front of the door, the three of them became instantly aware of something.

"... France?"

"... Oui...?" Francis said, feeling the pit of his stomach drop.

"You said you locked the door, right...?"

"O-oui."

England's teeth grit, "And presumably, you _close_ the door when you locked it, correct?"

"O..O-oui..."

Alfred and England turned on the man, and it was Arthur's voice that barked, "Then care to _explain_ why the bloody fucking hell the door is open!?"

France 'eeped' and he then dodged around them and went to the door. "I... I do not know," he said frantically, his accent becoming thicker again, "Per'aps the door is faulty and..." He pushed the door open. "Mathieu... we are ba-" his voice stopped.

America and England were beside him, and a long silence played.

"Oh shit..."

America dashed in, throwing back the covers on the bed in a desperate maneuver to try to suddenly make the Canadian reappear.

...

"Where the hell is Matthew!?"

* * *

**Author's Notes : **

Are huge chapters going to be my new trend? Wow. I mean, I keep writing massive chapters. But I feel that all this is necessary in the scope of the chapter, and any part missing or transplanted in the next chapter would seem too choppy. So I guess it's long. Again.

I had fun with this. As for France, I tend to actually write him with a much heavier accent, but it's sometimes distracting to read if you aren't using it, so I reserved it to missing 'h' sounds when he's more flustered than normal. Hope that's okay. :3

... Also sorry if you were expecting a brawl.

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**Chapter Six Preview : **Well this was fantastic. No. Really. Did I lay the sarcasm on too thick? Let's get a run-down. Canada is sick. It's about to become a thunderstorm. Ivan is insanely pissed, and they have no idea where Matthew went. The day just gets gets better and better... and better...

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Thanks for reading! Read and Review **please**!  
(Or Belarus will try to get married_married_married_married_married...)

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Auughhhh your reviews... they are so niceeeeee.... There are a few of you that are _very _consistent and it brightens my day to see you put down the effort to review so kindly. D: Sooo nice of you... So I apologize to those people especially for the delay between chapter four and five.

3


	6. The Red Scarf

**Disclaimer of this Chapter :** There is still swearing. I think it's safe to assume that England and America will continue to swear. I apologize if it offends, but I won't be removing it. Thanks.**  
Ownership :** Still don't own Hetalia. I can't wait untill they come out with Hetalia posters. I'll be all over those. Ve~**  
Important Note :** ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down a nation in question. This is based off of characterizations, and not the countries involved. Thanks very much.

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Awesomeness, someone rather lovely drew me so far _two_ fanart pieces. Let me put links in. Fill the (dot) with a... period. :3 And remove the spaces

From Chapter 3 :  
nanamixiv(dot)deviantart(dot)com / art / Let-s-go-161219935  
From Chapter 4 :  
nanamixiv(dot)deviantart(dot)com / art / Not-forgotten-161112234

Awesomeness. This made my day(s). She is awesome.

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**  
Chapter Six Summary : **Stupidity. Sheer stupidity. Now it was time to _pay_ for one's mistakes. In one way or another.

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**- Chapter 6 - The Red Scarf - **

America, France and England; all three of them stood in a dumbfounded silence as they stared at the empty room, at the empty _bed_. America's outburst, in loud request of where Canada could be, was the last thing said between them for a number of silent seconds.

It was plain and simple. Matthew was just gone.

France would never have assumed his 'dear Mathieu' would just get up and decide to leave. Because, naturally, he assumed better of his French-speaking son, and never thought he'd do something as stupid as leave the room when he specifically knew he shouldn't.

America, however, did not think that Canada did this of his own accord. He thought Russia had something to do with his sudden disappearance, and at that mental revelation, he was already feeling the heat from before beginning to rise again.

England just felt the pit of his stomach drop; the reason for this? The last time he took Matthew's temperature, before Francis took over, he had a fever of 103.1 degrees Fahrenheit, and the last time he saw him, Canada definitely did not look like he was up and ready to take a _walk_. So no matter the reason behind Matthew's disappearance, the worry was still the same.

He turned on France, his last points of composure left in him were grating away to nubs. Knowing that France had left Canada was certainly not aiding in the motion of his patience filing away.

"Why did you leave him alone you sodding arse!?" Arthur grit between poorly contained anger. "What a bloody fucking stupid thing to do you bloody pillock!"

France jeered at the British slang and insults being thrown at him mercilessly, and he held up his hands as if they would protect him from the onslaught of words. "I... 'e... 'e is not in bed. That does not mean 'e is missing mon Angleterre," he defended lamely, accent thickening once more. "Per'aps 'e is in the bathroom..."

Arthur watched him as he brushed past to look in the small attached bathroom. "Mathieu...? Oh Mathieu... Are you in 'ere...?"

Unless Canada was getting unbelievably good at playing the invisible game, there was no sign of the Canadian male. Not a lick of blond hair, not a spark of purple eyes, and nor a sign of the unruly curl. There was nobody. Not even a single wisp or mere _suggestion_ of his presence.

"O-oh... Oh my."

As this was happening, America still stood beside the bed, hand still gripping the corner of the sheets.

"I bet that fucking commie bi-polar _bitch_ did something! I can feel it. I bet he was waiting around here. I bet he was waiting around the hallway for us to leave, and when he saw the fucking Frenchie frolic out of the room he made his move!" He growled, flinging the sheet down to the ground angrily.

Arthur made no move to acknowledge his other son, perhaps he didn't hear him, and instead he marched back to France and tugged him to face him with an angry gesture. "Listen here. Do you understand the gravity of the situation? What you have _done_?"

England was pushed away.

"Yes! Yes! I do, I'll 'ave you know, _l'Angleterre_, that Mathieu is very ill," he finally snapped back, "But it is not my fault that 'e disappeared! I locked the door, I told 'im to rest, and I was just getting 'im _food_. I was gone for a whole of ten minutes at the _most,_ so do not even begin suggest that this is _my fault_ when it could 'ave 'appened to anyone!" He felt the need to point out, "Even you!"

Arthur growled and wanted to make a retort, but Alfred spoke up before something could start off again.

"Shut the fuck up the both of you. Unless you two bitching at each other is going to find Mattie, I really suggest we start, I dunno… _looking_ for him," he said, adding, "Hey. How about we start looking in the commie's pocket? That sounds like an _excellent_ idea."

England felt a tick at his eyebrow and he turned away from Francis. "Alfred. He is not with Ivan. You know as well as I do that Ivan was around the conference meeting the whole time we were there, and he was not anywhere _near_ here because _you_," he said, gesturing, "told him very specifically that you'd bloody kill him if he so much as went _near_ here! Or was I just imagining you saying that to him before we entered the conference after _this_ toad took over 'looking after' Matthew."

"Like he'd listen to me!" America countered. "He wasn't outside the conference room when we left the meeting!"

"And he wasn't around _here_ either!" England retorted.

A snort. "Why the fuck do you think that is?"

"He's not going to do something that stupid," England had to regretfully admit after a moment.

"Oh? Try me. He already harassed Mattie, and you told me that you think he has _fractured _something. That sounds _pretty fucking dumb to me_. So him stealing Mattie? Right now? Sounds like a pretty reasonable conclusion."

"You barmy _fool_!" England retorted again sharply, "Ivan has nothing to do with this right now!"

"Yes he does! You just don't want to believe that the bastard is still fucking evil!"

"He is _not_ evil. He is just... very mislead! And at _any rate_," England snapped, "Matthew probably walked off somewhere because he was left alone, _not_ because of Russia!"

"Prove it!"

"Oh? You want _proof_? Why don't you go and prove to me that Ivan had something to do with this in the first place and I'll _gladly _follow your suggestion," he said, his tone condescending and obviously implying that he thought Alfred was being a moron.

America glared.

"What?" England said, "Oh that's right, _because he didn't do anything_. God. I know that the man can do terrible things, and that _has_ done some terrible things... But everyone has a limit, and nobody is that bloody stupid!"

"Mattie didn't just walk off!"

"Well what the bloody hell else do you think he did? Flew out the god-forsaken window?" He gestured to the offending window in question wildly without so much as taking his eyes off of America. "Did he just become a _bird_? Or tell me, I bet he probably had a brilliant idea to become a dare-devil and decided to go leaping out of the window to perform a somersault on the asphalt."

"I already told you that the fucking co-"

He was cut off.

"- If you say 'fucking commie bastard' _one more time _I am going to smack you upside the head!"

"If you fucking _touch me,_" America hissed, stepping closer to England,_ "_I'm going to do _worse_ than just smack you upside the fucking head."

England spluttered, not caring that Alfred was getting intimidating. "How _dare_ you! How... How _dare you_! I'm your father! You have no bloody right to speak to me this way!"

"Phhftt! Lovely title you gave yourself there, _England_. Father? I kinda recall me leaving your house at some time because you were doing a really shitty job of being a father."

England felt his face turn red, positively seething with rage. "Of all the _fucking nerve in the world_. Don't say such insolent, idiotic, rude and _unappreciative things_!"

"Huh? I recall you being pretty incompetent! No wonder Mattie is gone! You didn't even want to be here and instead you had Mr. Toad over here watch him."

"I recall that _you were the one that suggested it in the first place you fucking moron_. So don't you even begin to _suggest_ to me that I'm anything close to being incompetent!"

"That doesn't matter!"

"It does ma-"

A loud, flustered and heavily accented voice cut them both off in the middle of their useless spat, "Would you both please _SHUT UP!_"

Any further words that either America or England had to say died in their throats and they stared at Francis dumbly; who had marched between them, shoved them apart and glared at them both in a reprimanding manner, hand on each person's shoulder.

"You are both being stupid!" France exclaimed. "Is it really that you both 'ave already forgotten about Mathieu? 'ave you both _forgotten_ why you were arguing in the first place?" He demanded.

"I uh..."

"Just 'ow does this 'elp 'im!? It does not! We should be looking for 'im, not finding stupid reasons and excuses to throw punches or yell at each other!"

"U... uh..."

"L'Amerique, I want you to go and talk to Russia. If you think 'e 'as done it, then you go find 'im, and look for Mathieu on the way. That isn't so 'ard, non?"

France turned to England next, not so much caring to hear Alfred's responce.

"L'Angleterre, you go and look for Mathieu and do not worry about what l'Amerique thinks! When 'e sees that Ivan is not involved, then 'e will 'elp! There is no reason to argue! Even 'e will not abandon 'is brother over a stupid notion!"

He huffed, letting go of their shoulders and stepping back. "I, myself, will also look." He regarded them both for a moment then gestured wildly, the sharp tone still in his voice. "Now apologize so we can work together without any more senseless bickering!"

America looked at him incredulously, spluttering. Oh like _hell_ he was going to fucking _apologize_ to him!

France's voice lowered threateningly, "L'Amerique."

"... Fine. Fucking _fine_." Alfred turned to England with a heavy sigh. "Whatever. I'm sorry, alright? I'm just a _little_ high-strung right now."

England fought with words, but he knew that Francis would force the words out of his mouth if need be. "I apologize."

America turned to France. "Is that good enough? Or do I have to get down on one knee and expel my deepest wishes that he forgives me? Maybe buy him a bouquet?"

"That is good enough! Now let us _go_," France gestured to the door, "Before we find him in a state that will require him to go to the 'ospital!"

And that was the only incentive they needed.

- - -

The clouds boiled above, a flash of light enveloped the sky, the world around it, and for a single moment of time everything was enveloped in a sheer, bright, white. Darkness came in an instant following, as the rain continued to cascade down in an unrelenting barrage of icy droplets.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

A lone person, the only person stupid enough to want to go outside in the wind, the rain, the hail, stood just outside of the large front doors, hand on the column of the large ornate stone overhang that currently kept them dry. The figure wavered, ever so slightly, for a moment slightly detached from the world that surrounded.

It was the one person who, of all others, should not be out in the rain. The one person how felt he had a duty to complete his self-given task. It was a goal that he felt was important enough to force his way into obtaining it.

Matthew swallowed, thinking dully at the back of his mind that maybe bringing an umbrella would have been smart, but the thought died off as his mind only had the energy to focus on one task, and one task only: Getting to the car. Getting to the car so he could get what he needed.

A flash of lightning cued Canada's movements of finally stepping out into the unforgiving downpour of rain.

He lamely jogged across the parking lot, splashing through thick puddles, and getting soaked virtually instantly, to the bone. His breath wheezed and puffed as he dashed, body screaming against the abuse he was dealing out to its ill frame. Canada was nearly unable to see past all the rain that blurred his vision and smeared against his glasses.

He stopped, huffing, holding onto a light-post with a hand as a rumble of thunder threatened him in the distance; as if mocking him to say that maybe holding a metal object in the middle of a storm was a very stupid idea. Instead of taking any mind to reason, Matthew wavered on the spot, feeling the creep of blackness trying to flicker its way into his consciousness.

He shook his head, blinking his eyes against the fog of oblivion that was attempting to claim him.

He sucked in air, letting go of the post, and made to dash again, stumbling towards his car that was just a few yards away.

As a flash of lightning blasted, and a crack of thunder followed only a few seconds later, hail started to fall. It ricocheted off of everything in its way, bouncing and clattering off of every available surface that was exposed to the elements, and that especially included Matthew.

Canada fumbled in his pocket for his extra set of keys (that he had snagged from his coat's pocket on the way out of his room) and jammed them in the back-door lock. He fumbled his first attempts in getting the door to open.

"C-c-c-com... come on..." He chattered. "C... c... come on!"

His hand slipped over the back of the key several times before he could gain a strong enough grip in his weak and numb condition, to turn the key and finally unlock the door.

When the door finally opened, he all but flung himself inside.

- - -

Russia was sitting quietly on a bench down the hallway just outside the conference room, hand on his offended shoulder. America had managed to do quite the little deal of damage to it, and it was doing nothing more than fuel his increasingly fouler and fouler mood.

However, His mind was dwelling on that incident at the moment. The weather proved to be a small distraction to his thoughts. He was noticing, with some tone of amusement tinged with revulsion, that all the countries had decided to end the meeting early, due to a little _rain_. He smirked to himself when another rumble of thunder consumed the silence.

Where they seriously so pathetic? They were actually calling an end to the meeting and deciding that it would be better for them to stay inside and stay for the night? As opposed to, as they put it, 'Brave the weather'. Brave the weather? Were nations _really _so pathetic now that they were afraid of a little _weather_?

His face darkened then. They had no idea what it was like to 'brave' _real_ weather. Pathetic. Useless. All of them. Every single one of them.

A smirk curled his lips however.

Oh well. They might have been pathetic now, but when they were all one, there would be no need to worry about such things anymore.

"As creepy as fuck as always, aren't you, Ivan?"

Ivan had not expected that, and he turned his head, blinking only to find America standing beside him, arms crossed, looking extremely pissed. His face morphed to a face 'pleasant', and he wondered what the stupid American wanted now.

"Oh I apologize," he said with no meaning, "I did not see you there, Amerika. Do you want something?"

"Yeah," Alfred said sharply. "I do."

"Well?" Ivan turned. "What do you want? I shall see if I can accommodate you. However, your needs are usually so large, I do not know if I'd be able to fully accommodate the sheer _vastness_ of your greed," he said pleasantly, coupled with the dark grin of his.

America's eyebrow only twitched out of annoyance, much to the Russian's disappointment, before he spoke in a demanding voice, "I want _Mattie_ damnit. Give Matthew back. Where the fuck did you hide him?"

Russia tilted his head. "... Matvey?" Why was he asking about him? He long since forgotten about that other nation. "I do not have Matvey."

"Fucking liar."

Russia displayed honest confusion for only a split second. It was in this split second that something in the back of his head told him not to react to this. To exploit this. Despite all that already happened, his mind thought it would be _fun_ to fuck with him a little.

"Perhaps I am." He smirked and folded his hands in his lap, disregarding his shoulder in preference to showing America he was not affected by him.

"I knew it! Fuck! You asshole! Where the hell did you put him?"

Russia just shrugged non-caringly, no longer paying attention to him anymore, it seemed.

"Don't you ignore me you ass! I want to know what you've done with Mattie! Where the hell is he!?"

"I do not know."

"W-... what? You just said-"

"I said nothing, Amerika," Russia said pleasantly. "I merely said 'perhaps' when you suggested I was dishonest, da? Did I not? Perhaps if you are looking for your brother, you should begin to actually _look_ for him. It is sad," he said uncaringly, "you misplaced him? You lost track of a whole individual? And to think he is your brother; how terribly depressing and bothersome for you."

Alfred growled. "I didn't come here to be patronized by _you_ of all people."

"I am not patronizing, Amerika. I am merely pointing out the truth. Maybe he is still where you last left him, but you cannot see past your own ego. It happens a lot, da. I notice from time to time. It's very sad. I feel sorry for poor Matvey."

"No you fucking don't."

"Oh!" Russia brightened. "You are very right! I actually do not. But I was saying that because I could, da?"

"Fuck this," America said, turning away from Russia, "You don't have him; you just want to fuck with me."

"Exactly! You are getting so much smarter Amerika -"

Alfred already was walking away, angrily muttering under his breath about 'fucking bastard commies' and 'ruining the heroic colour red' and 'fucking ass-wipe' as well as a whole slew of disgusting, unoriginal, and pathetically American so-called 'insults'.

He watched him, smile still on his lips and his eyes narrowed, hand reaching back to his offended shoulder to massage the muscles there. "Oh! And Amerika," he called out, "You must hope I do not find Matvey first!"

No responce.

Ivan chuckled darkly.

America disregarded him; he had no intention of letting that man find Matthew first. He was going to locate Canada, and keep him as far away from that Russian creeper as humanly possible, and then take care of him. He was not going to keep screwing this up, and he was not going to let something like this happen ever again!

He quickly found England and France, who were both working together on the efforts to locate Matthew. Francis was looking out a window at that moment, and upwards to the boiling black clouds.

"He's not up in the air, you daft idiot," England commented sharply.

"Non... I am regarding the weather, _mon petit rouge fleur_," France commented, eyebrows knitting. "I hope that Mathieu has not decided to go outside in this. We would have no chance in finding him."

"Oh he _better_ not have gone out in that; such a completely idiotic thing to do. What does he want to do, kill himself? Matthew knows far better than that. I would certainly know, because I'm the one who _raised_ him. I'd love to believe that some of my lessons have rubbed off on at least _one_ person."

France nodded. Surely they'd notice him if he was out there anyway, he glanced through the parking lot and seeing nothing, before turning back to England.

With a blink, he spoke, "Ah. L'Amerique. You are back so soon." He said to the person he just noticed had joined them. "I take it you spoke with Russia?"

America adjusted his stance, arms crossed, annoyance playing his features. "Yeah. He doesn't have him." He turned his head sharply to England and pointed viciously, "And if you say 'I told you so,' I'm going to fucking kick your ass."

France stood between them before another incident occurred. "Please. Let us try to keep calm. Thank you, l'Amerique, for finding out that Ivan does not have Mathieu… that is a huge relief. Now, shall we continue our search for him together?"

America and England snuffed air out of their noses at the same time, and both agreed.

"Good," France said with a note of cheer to lighten the mood. "I was thinking perhaps he was this way," he pointed down the hallway. "It is very quiet down there, and once or twice I have seen Mathieu (or at least I think I did) sitting there and admiring the silence bef-"

His voice faded into the distance as they continued on their way. Ivan, who had followed America and was watching them from around the corner, watched them as they fell out of view.

Completely pathetic. They really had lost that other one, hadn't they?

When America had approached him initially with his demands, he was not sure if he should believe him or not. There were only two possible reasons why that would have occurred. Either: one, America was just trying to piss him off (and failed), or two, that they just seemed to over-look Canada again, and the hot-headed America jumped to stupid conclusions because he _could_.

But according to his observation, they really _had_ lost them. All three of them had.

Hmn. Interesting.

He approached the window where France was before, massaging his bruised shoulder. It _would_ be a shame if Canada was outside in that 'terrible weather', he darkly thought. Oh how _sad_ it would be. Well. Not really; at least not to him. It brought a certain note of amusement when he pictured the pathetic nation in it.

Still picturing Canada in that weather, one of the things that he was using to fuel one of the aspects of his mood, but also to put a damper on another, he turned away from the window.

If he was anyone else, he'd have given a shout of surprise; because someone had been standing directly behind him.

And so, in result of him turning, standing before him, absolutely sopping, was...

Canada.

Russia changed his expression to be emotionally neutral, as he was uncertain of what to do about this sudden situation.

The other purple-eyed, blonde-haired man was positively soaking. Leading from his feet, all the way from where he had came from, was a trail of water. More was coming, and pooling around his feet in a shallow puddle as it dripped off of his clothes, hair, fingers, glasses and even that stupid curl of his.

Matthew shifted, holding onto an equally-sopping bag between two hands. He held it out to Russia, trails of water dripping off of the bottom of it.

"I-i-i-i... I'm s-s-sorry. It's a b-bit wet," he said first, tone quavering. "I... I c-can as-assure you that I do-double bagged it so... so it sh-should be d-d-d-dry on the inside."

So he _had_ gone out in that weather? Russia could not let his amusement over that touch his expression, and instead a quizzical one betrayed his appearance. He did not make any movements to take whatever it was that was being offered to him.

"..."

Canada gestured with the bag, urging him to take it, more droplets flicking to the floor.

"I-I..." He wavered for a moment, closing his eyes, swallowing thickly before opening them again.

He drew the bag back quickly, lamely wiping his hands on his pants and he fumbled with the ties on the top of the bag.

Russia just watched, his amusement of the situation rising; despite how strange and confusing it was in the first place. Just what was he _doing_?

"I...I..." He attempted again. "G-g-got this... for you..."

Ivan became more perplexed, but this time he did not let any of it creep into his expression. Instead, he veiled it all under a dark shadow as he merely watched the other country with a sort of mild curiosity.

He observed as Matthew fumbled with the bag, slippery fingers just barely getting the tightly tied loops of the plastic shopping bag open.

Canada fished out what looked like _another_ bag, though instead it was clear and had a zipper-top. He sighed when he saw that what was contained within was dry and not marred or damaged by water. Still fumbling, and sliding the zip back, followed by another wipe of his hand on his pants, he retrieved the object (which appeared to be large and red).

Just what _was _he doing...? What was that he had in his hand?

Ivan felt something warm and soft then wrap around his neck; Matthew was standing in front of him, carefully looping the woolen red garment around his neck and partially onto his shoulders. Russia was frankly stunned, and he watched him in a dumb sort of silence before the sopping wet man took a step back from the Russian.

"T...t-here," Matthew smiled.

Russia reached up and touched the new object around his neck with a sort of bewilderment.

"I...I-It's n-not as nice... as.... w-what you ha-had before, o-or a-as special, o-or as well made," Canada stumbled over his words, "But it-it sh-should fill i-in the blanks u-until y-you find your own a-again..."

"... What...?"

"A s-scarf. I...I m-made it a w-while ago... S-so... e...excuse if it's... u-uncomfortable..."

He didn't know what to say, his mind was drawing nothing but blanks.

A long silence followed, and Canada stood back and watched him hopefully for a moment, his arms loosely around himself as he began to quake quietly, more water dripping off of his sodden thin frame.

After a moment or two more of silence, and of Ivan making no movements to react to what Canada had done, Matthew turned from Russia, and started to walk away from the man in the direction he presumably came from.

Matthew himself was feeling extremely accomplished. He did his duty. He had gone and fetched Russia a new replacement scarf, in hopes that it would do the job of keeping Ivan content enough until he found his old one. He _completed_ his self-imposed responsibility and he did not care if he did not get a single thanks in return. He only felt good in the fact that he had helped him, that he had done a good deed. He needed nothing more than that simple satisfaction.

Ivan was stunned, his hand still reaching up and touching the soft carefully-knitted wool of the red-scarf that was now wound around his neck gently. His mind had apparently frozen for a moment, and he just watched Matthew, rather pathetically, walk away.

He only let a moment or more pass before he stepped forward himself, easily catching up to the Canadian in a couple of strides.

He had no reason for it, but anger was bubbling within him; so when Matthew turned to him, he lashed out with a snarl and tugged him forward roughly by the front of his shirt.

"What do you think you are doing, Matvey?" he demanded, being none-too-gentle with the man, "Are you playing a _game_? Is this a _joke_?"

Canada squeaked, his jaw worked, no other sound came.

Ivan's eyebrows crinkled, his nostrils flared and he glared at Matthew down the bridge of his nose. He was undoubtedly pissed. Why of all things would Canada try to attempt to do something as _stupid_ as this? Was he _trying_ to mock him!?

"Well?" He seethed, voice dark and positively icy.

"I...I..." Matthew managed out, one of his clammy hands took a hold of Ivan's wrist. "I...I... s-saw a-and hea-heard that you we-were missing your s-scarf a-"

"_So_? Do you mock me Matvey? Are you mocking me? I find that today you have been very stupid. Perhaps you think you are playing a game, da? First you are in my chair, then you hit me when I am asking you to leave my room, then you assault me..." He said, announcing all of their encounters that day, "... then you do this, mn? You are not very funny. You are not amusing me."

"I..I...I di-"

"You did not mean it. I know," he said, voice blank and neutral for the moment. "You lie."

"I-I...Ivan I just..."

"I am not your friend. Do not call me that."

Canada was starting to take fairly heavy breaths, both his hands on Russia's wrist as he wavered. "R... Russia... I just... wanted to... help..."

"This is not _helping_. You are mocking me Matvey. I do not take lightly to being mocked."

Matthew started to waver more; he tried to re-affirm his grip on Russia's arm, hand landing on bare flesh between the coat and glove for a moment.

Words started to turn to glue in his throat. "I... I'm... I swear... I... Not mocking... The scarf... and... I..."

"What?" He snapped, but didn't quite catch what Matthew was getting at.

"I… Wanted… to just… you… and… important…"

He wasn't making any sense at all anymore. That, coupled with the heated hand on his wrist, made Russia's assault dwindle to a degree, and he commented on the side, "Your hand is very hot Matvey..."

Canada just continued to slur, "Just... didn't want... I wanted to help... didn't want you... upset... and... you... I..." All sense in his words thrown to the wind as he started to sink, breaths coming in short heated puffs.

"... Matvey..."

"... your scarf..." He mumbled, his knees hitting the floor, Russia was coming down with him, hands no longer holding the front of his shirt, but rather his shoulders.

"... Matvey," he attempted again.

The Canadian's breaths were coming in soft gasps, and Russia could nearly feel the heat that radiated off of him _without _touching him. Matthew's eyes were drooping and he started to sag in the man's grip.

"... Matvey!"

Russia did not let him just fall to the floor, instead he guided the man to lean forward, rather than just letting him listlessly collapse on the ground, the Canadian was heavily leaning against him.

Ivan, functioning on automatic, was working off one of his gloves with his teeth. When his hand was free from it, he pressed it to Matthew's forehead for a few seconds before moving it to the Canadian's neck; effectively both checking his pulse and temperature.

Just how sick _was_ he...? He had encountered him earlier that day, and he definitely was not _this _ill. Sure, he had a fever, but not this bad. Also it certainly was not a good sign that the heart of the Canadian was just _pounding_ inside the Matthew's delicate chest.

Damnit... What should he d-

...

He withdrew his searching hand sharply, as if burned.

This was no business of his. This was something he should not care about in the slightest. Matthew had been attempting to _mock_ him, hadn't he? So why should he so much as even try to _offer_ a slimmer of sympathy? No. This wasn't something he should even be involved in, much less be bothered over.

He pushed Matthew off and away from him, and lay him down on the floor with the intent to get up and just leave him there.

However, Ivan didn't get up right away, he was looking down at Matthew still, his hand subconsciously touching red scarf that was neatly placed around his shoulders. He could just leave him there. His stupid family would make the rounds, find him, and they would take care of him.

Of course. That was exactly what would happen. He could almost hear the stupid cries of France, wailing in worry over the 'boy', and America's pissed off shouts and no-doubt accusations that _he_ had something to do with this. Oh, and of course, England would storm in, call them both morons, and thusly take care of the situation in a 'proper British manner'. All in some poor semblance of a family-unit.

That is... He glanced down at the form on the floor, _if_ they found him.

It was probably their fault in the first place, wasn't it? The fact that Matthew was like this in the first place was most certainly their fault.

Who knew the number of times that Canada's own _father_ overlooked him. Heck, he knew that he noticed the Canadian more often than most of the other countries combined, and even then, that was not saying much.

It was highly likely that they would walk right down the hallway, and not notice him laying on the floor so pathetically like that. Most likely, they'd walk straight on by...

He felt a light pang somewhere within him and he squashed it flat, releasing the scarf in his hand as feeling it was only proving to make the feeling more thick and annoying. He narrowed his eyes. He didn't like it. He did not like it _at all_.

He moved to stand, but stopped when he noticed a hand was weakly holding onto the corner of his coat.

Canada... Was not looking very good on the floor. Pale. Shuddering against an invisible icy wind that he alone felt. Breaths were uneven, face flushed despite his paleness, fever burning just mere millimeters from the top of his flesh...

Russia knelt back down to Matthew and swiftly hoisted him upwards, wholly ignoring his wrecked shoulder as he made quick steps, carrying the Canadian, down the hallway.

This had nothing to do with caring, _or guilt_, he told himself furiously. Nothing at all. It was pure and simple common sense and just a simple _kindness_ that any respectable and civilized nation would do. He was not a barbarian, despite what Alfred said. Yes... That was the reason. That was definitely the reason.

He just had a duty to get him to some form of medical attention.

He turned a corner, and towards familiar sounds of three blond-haired nations; Three-fourths of the pathetic excuse for a family. He headed straight for the sounds, the trembling Matthew tightly in his grasp and curled into him.

"Ohh," Francis whined from down the hall, his voice echoing in an annoying matter, "Oh... Where could Mathieu be? I surely 'ope 'e 'as not gone outside in that weather!" France said despairingly, gesturing to England wildly in worry for his son.

England smacked the hand that was too close to him for comfort. "Oh he isn't that stupid! I told you. He wouldn't go out there unless he felt it was pretty damn _important_ to so. And even then, it's still stupid."

America was sighing, worried, but still sighing at his two idiotic 'parents'. He was just starting to speak and he casually glanced behind them because of the sound of boots against the flooring, "Look, maybe eye moved around a bit while we were looking. I bet he-" Words died in his throat.

"You bet he...?" England urged at his son's pause.

"- was taken by the fucking commie bastard!" America snarled.

England rolled his eyes. "Oh not _that_ again, we went over this before! Do you have a one-track-m-" He was effectively cut off by America dashing away from them and down the hall.

Sure enough, when Arthur turned, Russia was making his way quickly toward them, holding a very limp-looking Matthew.

America slammed on the breaks just in front of Ivan and he glared at him with the ferocity of seventy hells. "You had him. You fucking _had him_. What the fuck did you do!?"

Russia had no choice to stop when Alfred had cut him off, and he adjusted the man in his arms. "I did not ha-"

"You fucking _lie!_" was his sharp responce. Alfred gestured wildly. "Hand him over! Now! Hand him over!"

Ivan's eyes narrowed, holding Matthew a little closer to himself. "No."

By this point, France and England were beside America, and while they were wholly surprised too, they did not share the anger and accusation that Alfred had, only the worry. Both were focused on the dripping figure that Russia was holding.

"Oh no... Mathieu..."

Russia looked at the three of them harshly, almost accusatory.

"Matvey needs to go to a doctor. Now."

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**  
Author's Notes :**

This chapter is not nearly so huge as the others. But as I said, no longer and no shorter than I feel it needs to be. That's my rule. Go with the flow, and be satisfied when I _feel_ it`s done. It just so happens it ends rather evilly. Or at least, I think so.

Russia is fun to write.

Also, I intened to upload this early morning on Sunday, but I opted out of that to spend more time making sure this chapter was the best. So I upload it today! Already excited to work on Chapter 7.

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**Chapter Seven Preview : **All of them felt guilty. One for a different reason. All of them were worried. One never would admit it. One had to apologize. One refused to see it. Matthew was struggling, and unware of the four.

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Thanks for reading! Read and Review please!

(Or Belarus will try to get ... married...)

You are seriously the nicest bunch of reviewers I have ever ever had. Ever. Those that write nice and long comments make my day, and I always have such a stupid dopy grin on my face. It`s nearly sickening. You'd think I was staring at a picture of puppies by the smile that I have whenever I read them.

Sorry I don't respond to that. Perhaps I will when this fanficion finally comes to a close. Thank people who have really made this so much easier to do. THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH. FFFfff.

You rival the awesome of Prussia even.


	7. Salmon in the Cupboard

**Disclaimer of this Chapter :** Yep. Still swears. Oh America.**  
Ownership :** I really want an America, Russia, Prussia, France and Canada plushie. And even though I have England, that does not mean I own the series. Oh well.**  
Important Note :** ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down a nation in question. This is based off of characterizations, and not the countries involved. Thanks very much.

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I had received another fanart pretty much the same day that I posted chapter six! Thank you very much!

From Chapter 6 :  
nanamixiv(dot)deviantart(dot)com / art / Trying-to-help-161320123

I have put links to all the fanart information on my profile page. With links. Awesome.

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**Chapter Seven Summary : **Rain. Rain. Go away. Come again another day…

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**- Chapter 7 - Salmon in the Cupboard - **

Canada stepped into what he assumed to be his living room. It had all the same things in it, his furniture, his bits and bobs; the wallpaper was the same colour even. But something about it just seemed so off. It felt distant and in the background; like he was paying attention to it, but not, at the same time. All in all, it was a weird feeling, and he promptly ignored it for other thoughts instead. Maybe it'd make sense when he woke up.

... Woke up? Was he asleep? He glanced about himself. Was he...?

... Oh well. He supposed it did not really matter.

Everything felt loopy, yet somehow felt right. He knew, as he sat himself on his couch, that maybe he really _did not_ recall that he had two bears instead of one, that Kumajirou never _really _had another companion that just _happened_ to be a bear too. But the concept of two did not bother him for some odd reason. Surprisingly, when he saw the second bear, he just said 'oh' and found himself acting like that was how life had always been.

Hrmn… Maybe he _was _asleep.

"Breakfast?" The duo of bears said in unison and Canada turned his head to them. Did they seem... bigger than they were before? They did seem somewhat more bearish, and one appeared to now be a little browner than the other; leaning towards the appearance of a grizzly over a polar bear.

"I'm sure I already gave you breakfast..." He found himself saying, "Two servings, I think. Didn't I? This morning?"

"Breakfast," they asked again, voices coming in and out of focus, but Matthew did not so much as notice that aspect.

"... Okay." He agreed, though he was _sure_ he already gave Kumajirou breakfast. Did he not? He was certain he had made him that disgusting glorp that he liked to call food.

While he was in the kitchen (that felt right, but also not right), reaching in a cupboard to grab whatever it was that was in there, a thought came to him. It was hazy, floating in the back of his mind just out of reach. He questioned for a moment why he had no trouble with dealing with where he was now, but for some reason memories were something he just could not grasp onto… Recalling details just came as a blur.

"... Don't I have to pick Al up for the meeting...?" he questioned to himself with uncertainty.

He glanced about, looking for a clock while withdrawing his hand that was hovering over a large, raw, salmon that just happened to be lying in his bare cupboard, still dripping fresh water. "I'm sure I already picked him up for... work? Did I already go to work...?"

Perhaps he _was_ dreaming.

He shook that thought out of his mind, finding his current disjointed thoughts more favorable over than the fuzzy intangible memories he was trying to retrieve. He glanced back at the small stuffed bear at the doorway. "Wasn't I getting you breakfast?"

He paused, and picked up the stuffed animal. "... You seem different than before."

Wondering why that was, and not able to come up to an answer, he settled the stuffed bear on the counter and pat its head once. "Oh well, I suppose this means I don't have to get you breakfast."

"Mattie," a voice came, and a hand slapped his back, though strangely he couldn't feel the force of it, "Mattie."

Canada turned to see his brother looking at him with that dopy but kind grin of his, that ever-present face of exuberance and excitement.

"Al...?"

"Hey Matt, if you do this one little itty bitty thing," he asked, strangely his voice felt so _clear_ compared to how the Kumajirous' voices had been, it felt so much more tangible, but yet unreachable somehow, "for me," Alfred pointed to himself, "I'll promise to take you out for breakfast without prompting at least once a month."

Huh...?

"Mattie?"

"I heard you Al, I think," he said, surprised to hear his own doubt. He _had_ heard all that, hadn't he?

"Matthew," Alfred called, as if he was off in the distance, yet his voice was still so clear compared to his own.

"I said I heard you. What do you want me to do for you?"

Alfred turned, and shockingly there was someone standing there. "England? What do we do? He isn't responding."

"I'm responding. See?" Matthew said, gesturing to himself. Was this just another form of invisibility? Where they could see him but not see his reactions to them? What was going on?

"Alfred I'm driving," England snapped, voice laced with a strange emotion, "I can't very well give you advice right now!"

"But he's not even _reacting_ to me! Pull over, something's wrong."

Wait... what? Driving? They weren't driving. They were standing in the middle of his kitchen. _Standing_. He glanced at them both, both who seemed to be entirely aware of him, but unaware at the same time. All in all, he was getting baffled, but fear was sinking into his chest as his confusion and disorientation of the whole situation was settling in.

"I _know_ something is wrong, but if I pull over then we'll never make it to the doctor! The weather is bad enough!"

"l'Angleterre, calm yourself..." France cooed.

France? When had France...?

"Alf...red..." He moved to speak, shocked that his voice had died in his throat. He had been speaking fine moments before!

Alfred's eyes widened "... Mattie!" he cried, "Can you hear me? Matthew? Hello? _Mattie_..."

"A...l..." He tried again, his voice choking out a nothing more than a croak. He put his hands on this throat, shocked that he could no longer speak.

Something felt _different_ about how he was speaking. How the words were coming out. They felt louder to his ears compared to how he'd been speaking before. But he didn't know _why_ it felt that way! He was speaking normally! What was going on?

"Yeah, it's me," America said tightly. "Yeah. It's definitely me. Matthew... Wake up. Come on Mattie."

Wake up? Wake up? He looked between the three figures that stood around him, that looked at him intently but spoke as if they were elsewhere. Focus entirely on _him_ but not in the way they should. Wake up...? Why did he need to wake up?

"W...hy...?" He attempted to ask, his voice coming as a rasp. _Damnit it all to maple hell._ Why couldn't he speak anymore?

A fourth figure appeared, causing Matthew to give an unpleasant start. For a split second, it felt like someone had been gripping him, and their grip tightened when he had jumped. That feeling faded away before he could think on it further.

"You are sleeping, da?" Russia said evenly. He was a little more faded out than the others. "Wake up Matvey."

Wake up...? Was he asleep?

Was he asl-

_SCREEEEECH._

Canada felt his body being jarred sideways violently; the grating screech of tire against asphalt filled the airspace and the world around him. In the same instance, the loud noise coupled with the violent movement flung Matthew headfirst out of his dreamland and into the world of reality like falling head-first into a freezing lake.

If he still had any doubts that he had been asleep before, all of them had been dashed in that very instant.

The world came into startling view, sounds and vision came as a garbled landscape of indiscernible sound and shapes; just blending colours that morphed across his eye's plane. Sounds were grating at first, ears coping with having to take in the new information. Though it seemed like forever, these feelings only lasted for a few microns of a second before everything cleared and locked into place.

The first thing he realised was that he was not standing, as he had assumed. He supposed that was the first thing that came with being asleep. He was lying down, on his back, and in the arms of his brother.

His brother, who, was just shaking off the fear and panic that the car he was in the backseat of nearly _pancaked_ into the back of a parked truck that was sitting stupidly in the dark, and storm thrashed, road. Matthew could hear the heavy pounding of his brother's heart beat against his chest.

Alfred's grip had tightened around him for a moment, his face contorted as he was obviously shaking off the adrenaline, and blue eyes flicked down at him for a second.

His eyes flicked back up, "D-doesn't look like Mattie was hur-"

America's eyes widened and he looked down at Matthew sharply. "Mattie!"

Canada, though not being able to see the other occupants in the vehicle, heard the twisting of persons in their leather seats, the creak of fabric against leather as they turned to look at Alfred and his shocked exclamation.

He saw a hand wave in front of his eyes and he blinked a few times as it went past, when America's hand withdrew, he felt himself being pulled up into a near bone-crushing hug.

"Matthew! Oh thank god! You really were gone there for a while!" America gushed, sounding muffled through his heavy Canada-hugging. "You weren't moving or saying anything, or when you did, you sounded like a frog or something worse! I thought we were losing you!"

England, voice still breathy from their 'near-death' experience from another vehicle, spoke out from what Matthew could guess was the driver seat. "Alfred! Don't be such an idiot. Matthew isn't dying, nor was he before," he'd have snapped, but his voice was too obviously laced with relief himself. "So we certainly weren't _losing_ him!"

"Mathieu!" Cried France, from what sounded like the front-passenger, "Oh my poor petite! 'ow I have been so worried about you!"

America broke both of their 'parents' off from their respective speeches and he let go of Matthew, and replaced him back into his lap, and he carefully brushed back Canada's hair.

"You there Mattie?" He asked, double checked. He had to double check.

Canada swallowed, "Yeah.... Yeah I'm here."

America, less melodramatically this time, sighed a heavy sigh of relief and smiled. "Oh thank goodness! I was really worried. I mean... _really_ worried."

He went back to sifting his fingers joyously in Matthew's hair, overwhelmed with relief to see his brother awake and at least somewhat conscious, if a bit groggy and off. It was definitely better than that shivering mass he had encountered before in Russia's arms! Definitely better.

But his hand stopped after a moment, his eyebrows furrowed, and concern returned to his expression. He pulled back his hand, an uncomfortable sound in his throat.

Arthur caught this change of expression, and the sound. "Alfred? What's wrong?"

For a moment Matthew found himself being 'ignored' as Alfred turned his attention away from him for only a moment. "His forehead still is really fucking burning. Like, no different. He's awake, doesn't that mean his fever should be down?"

A pause, then Matthew heard the last voice of the last occupant in the car, "Let me see, Amerika."

Matthew _felt_ the shifting for some reason, only to realise that the rest of himself was _not_ on the seat of the car. No, the rest of himself was definitely in the lap of another person; the lap of whomever was occupying the last seat remaining in the vehicle.

A few gears turned in the fevered Canadian's mind and then he came to the sharp realisation of... Wait a minute... Was he in... Russia's _lap_?

_Russia's_ lap!?

Canada was going to comment on this surprising revelation, when stopped as he felt a very large hand placed against his forehead, nearly blacking out his vision just by its sheer size.

He swallowed, shivering at how cold it felt, but sighing at how _good_ it felt at the same time.

There was the sound of a click of a tongue, some words muttered in Russian, and the creak of leather as Ivan properly righted himself, his hand lifting from Matthew's forehead.

"It does not feel any better, England," Russia commented, purposefully only addressing Arthur, and ignoring Alfred altogether. "If anything, I think Matvey feels more heated than before."

"Mat_thew_," America muttered darkly to the Russian, correcting the man for his _abuse_ of his brother's name, but was no louder than a mere mumble. He himself put his own hand in place of Russia's and noted how Matthew sighed when his cool hand touched his heated flesh. He opted to keep it there if Canada liked it so much.

"Thank you," was England's simple reply as he started up the car again, the vehicle roaring back into life.

Canada was dumbfounded now. Just what was happening? America, England, France and _Russia_ of all people were piled into the car, together, and he was very certain that he was half in America's lap, being cradled carefully by his brother, and half on _Ivan's_ lap. Ivan! Of all people!

He shifted, but America took this as discomfort and adjusted his grip on his brother, before replacing his cool hand back on his forehead to deal out more comfort.

"What...?" Matthew found himself saying after Alfred stopped the shifting. "... What happened?"

"Oh Mattie," America started, "You can't imagine how worried I've been about you! I've been so unimaginably worried this whole time," he repeated his words from before. "We've been in the car for nearly an hour now, trying to get you to a doctor."

"A doctor...?" Matthew said slowly. "Why are you trying to get me to a doctor...?" He asked, voice hazed and confused. "What happened?"

Alfred swallowed. "Ha-ha Mattie. Very funny..."

Matthew just looked up at him a little blankly; his expression clearly read that he had no idea what America was talking about. What did he mean, 'taking him to a doctor'? Did something happen? Was that the reason why he just woke up? Now that he thought of it... he didn't remember falling asleep in the first place.

Wait a minute... Did he pass out?

"... Matthew?" England tested, twisting in his seat. The car was idling, sending a light rumble through the whole vehicle. He took no notice, nor did anyone else. "Do you not remember...?"

"Remember what?" Canada asked, trying to sit up out of America's grasp, but found he had not the strength, nor energy to do so.

Alfred tightened his grasp on Matthew. "... You passed out Mattie. You were with..." his voice darkened slightly, but he kept it chipper enough for his brother, "... Ivan. You passed out when you were with him."

He was with Ivan? Was he? He glanced at the Russian man, who was leaning slightly, looking at him with a serious gaze. He remembered that he wanted - or rather, was _told_ - to avoid him. At least, that's what he recalled hazily. He looked back at Ivan for a moment, and noticed the shock of red that was wrapped around the man's neck carefully and securely.

"... When had he...?" He started to ask, but stopped himself; his eyes were on the scarf.

Ivan touched the scarf with a hand and tilted his head. "Matvey?"

"I... um... never mind... My head hurts." He put his hand to his forehead and began to massage at one of his temples, his eyes closing for a moment. "... Never mind..." He mumbled.

America was starting to look freaked out. "Matthew, come on," He moved Canada's hand away from his head and he looked at him when his brother's eyes reopened. "Tell me... What _do_ you remember? Anything at all. Any details will do."

"What do I remember," he parroted for a second, looking upward. "You know... my mind feels really, _really_ hazy right now. So... Umn..." He closed his eyes for a second but he felt a tap of his cheek telling him to _not_ to do that, in fear that he'd just fall unconscious again. "I... I remember driving to your place."

Alfred nodded an affirmative. England relaxed slightly along with France, but there was still a tenseness beading around their shoulders and arms.

"What else do you remember, Mathieu?" France spoke finally.

"I... um... Breakfast. With Alfred. He got me this maple hot chocolate and it was really good..." Matthew said, in unclear remembrance of that morning. "It was so long ago, I don't know if that really happened."

America didn't like the ending of that sentence, but he brightened and nodded when the memory itself was correct. "It did. It did. You're right. And you know what? I promise to get that for you again once you are feeling better, okay Mattie? Promise. Like, an awesome-brotherly-promise-thing. Okay?" He said, attempting a cheerful and toothy smile.

"Heh... Yeah..."

It was Arthur's turn, "Matthew, what other details do you remember? Anything else?"

More? He had to remember more? But his mind felt so hazy and in the distance. He felt so off. He didn't want to have to remember more. He closed his eyes and regrettably opened them again when America's hand was tapping at his cheek once more to urge him to stay awake. He wasn't falling _asleep_... he was trying to _think_.

It was just easier when he was trying to think with his eyes closed.

"I um... Remember being in the kitchen," he started off, pulling at a memory that felt recent.

"In the kitchen?" Alfred asked.

"Yeah... At home. I was at home. I think it was before I picked you up." He stopped himself. "No. After. Wait..." He paused again and thought it through. "Wait wait... I think it was after, but I was in the kitchen... getting Kuma something to eat," he was talking slowly, as if uncertain of what he was saying.

There was a stillness that fell…

Then the car had started to roar to life properly from its idling, and England was taking haste in pulling it out and around the parked truck and back down the long highway road.

"And...?" Alfred dared to ask, wanting his brother to continue, despite being afraid of what this was revealing.

"... But you were there? And dad... And..." He took a breath, his mind feeling hazy again. "I wanna know why there was salmon in the cupboard, that's so weird. How did I get in the car so fast?" He asked honestly, like he now was for certain that he had just appeared between the two places somehow. "And did you make sure to feed Kumajirou before we left? I don't want him to starve... Or his little friend. What was his name - I can't seem to recall it at all."

Alfred paled a few shades, he didn't like the sound of that and he looked forward sharply. "Oh crap. Arthur, he _sounds_ coherent but he's fucking delusional!"

"I'm painfully aware," England responded tersely. That had been the very reason _why_ he decided to take haste in getting them back on track and on the road. "You keep him up and talking, I'm sure we're nearly at the clinic if this useless GPS unit is anything to boast about," he said tapping on the screen that was flickering and having trouble due to the interference of the storm.

In a testament to America's comment, it was clear that Matthew didn't _hear_ his statement about his being delusional, and he asked, a little louder. "Did you make sure to -"

"Feed them?" America laughed weakly. "Oh, yeah. Totally. Um... The salmon was in there 'cause they asked for it to be. Don't worry about it Mattie. They got all the food they need," he lamely offered, unsure of how that was going to go over.

"Oh?" Matthew said. "Oh good. That's good. He'd be upset at me if I forgot to do that. Don't want to do that," he trailed off, his eyes starting to slip shut again.

America pat his cheek again, now wishing they hadn't just left the building in such a rush, but had the sense to bring along some cold compresses or a cool cloth or _something_. His brother's brain must have been _Matthieu a-la Flambé_ at this point! He was sure he was being cooked inside out now, and it was only a matter of time before Canada lost all sense all together.

"Alfred...?" Canada asked tiredly.

"Yeah Mattie?"

"... When you see Russia again," his voice sounded softer, he was definitely fading out, and there was little America could do to stop it. "... could you ask him..."

"I'm right here, Matvey."

"Shh," Alfred hissed and he turned back to his brother. Asking carefully, "What do you want me to ask him?"

"... could you ask him," Matthew continued, "how he got my scarf...? I'm not mad though," he said defensively. "I'm happy... I hope... it keeps him... warm..."

There was a long silence that followed as Matthew's body relaxed into its previous limpness in Alfred's arms, his face morphing back into a disturbingly calm and peaceful expression.

"Mattie? Mattie?" Alfred tried tapping his face again, but did not get a response this time. "... Mattie? ... He's gone again."

A silence invaded the vehicle after that. They had been so hopeful that when Matthew started speaking, that it would be the cue of him finally breaking out of whatever it was that was taking a hold of his health in a vice-like grip. They didn't get any such relief however, only a window into the hard reality that this wasn't going to be as easy as they all hoped.

So instead, while they all mulled over what happened, the near-accident with the truck all but completely wiped from memory, they worried about Canada. All of them did. Even those that would deny outright if put down the question.

After a moment or more of silence, America moved his gaze away from his brother, where he had locked it down since Matthew lost consciousness once more. He looked out the black window to only see the unrelenting storm of rain smashing against the car as it always had been. No help there.

He slowly looked at Russia.

Ivan had looked away from Matthew, his hands were knitted neatly in his lap, but between them was one of the ends of the scarf, and his thumb was subconsciously stroking across it.

Alfred's eyes narrowed. "So. _Ivan_. Why _do _you have that scarf? At first I thought you dug it out of somewhere, or found some extra one, but that's _Matthew's_?"

Russia turned his head. "Hmn?"

"You heard me."

Ivan let go of the scarf end in his hand and he carefully flung it over one shoulder and he regarded America quietly; he was considering if he should impart any information on the man. He decided no. No, America did not need to know anything. "I believe it is none of your business, Amerika," Ivan stated, a cheerful tone fake in his words.

"Uh huh. Mattie asked me why you have it. So I am going to ask, for the sake of _Matthew_. _Why_ do you have it? Did you _steal_ it from him? Is that what you were doing when we found you with him? Just finishing up something you did right after you _stole _something from my brother?"

Ivan felt a ripple invade his spine and spread outwards to his fingers and toes, but it sparked negatively in his chest. He didn't know why, but the feeling was _there_.

His voice lowered. "That is not what happened, Amerika. That is not what happened at all."

"Likely story. You know what? I have no fucking clue why you're even in this car. I really don't. I have no idea why you even_ wanted_ to be here; you fucking asshole. I know you did _something_. There's no way you did _not_ do something," Alfred said accusingly, not letting his gaze quiver for a single moment.

"I did not do anything to Matvey," Russia warned.

"Oh? _Really?_" America spat quietly, trying to keep himself from breaking out and yelling at the man before him, "Because I seem to recall two instances when you _did something to him_."

Russia stiffened; his nostrils flared as accusations, true or not, were thrown at him. "Amerika..." He started, his tone getting more dangerous.

"You know what? How about I tell you this," He removed one of his hands from Matthew. Reaching, he gently picked up Canada's bound and limp wrist. "See this? _This_ is something you did you fuckwad. _You_ did. Not me. Not anyone else. _You_. This is the main reason why I don't believe a single word that is coming out of your mouth."

"..."

"And Ivan? If I find out that you broke something _else_ of his, I am going to do something equally terrible to you. You can count on it," America said, finishing his threat coolly. "So. Tell me. What did you do to him? Might as well come clean now and maybe I'll take it easy on your sorry Russian ass."

Ivan stopped paying attention to America after he mentioned the words: 'broke something else'. His eyes flicked from the man accusing him, to Matthew's wrist, to Matthew, then back to America. His tone was still dangerous, but it had softened to a very slight degree. Only the most observant would notice,

"You mention break. Did I break something?"

Alfred glared, assuming that he was taunting him, but filled him in nevertheless. "Remember that stunt you pulled earlier? When Mattie did the fucking awesome thing and tackled you? You grabbed him by the fucking _wrist_ and held him in mid-air you asshole. What do you _think_ that'd do? Cure cancer?"

Break. Did he break it? Did he really? He glanced at the wrist that was bound pretty tightly in white bandages. He hadn't really noticed them before. He hadn't noticed Matthew being hampered by a broken wrist before.

Maybe that was just because Canada had been so out of it at that point, that he could have been lamed by a broken ankle and the ill man wouldn't have noticed it at all. He frowned. That very much was likely the reason why he hadn't noticed.

But did he _really_ _break_ his wrist?

America saw the frown appear on Ivan's face. "What? Are you feeling guilty now? Oh boo-fucking-hoo."

Ivan's eyes hardened a thousand times over and he glared at Alfred. His voice seethed with ice and he spoke. "I am not feeling sorry, Amerika. I do not care if Matvey had broken his _neck_ because of that. Believe me when I say this, da?" He leaned a little, the best he could, considering their positions. "My reasons for being here are my own; and I did nothing to him. Nothing."

America didn't respond, he only glared at him.

"Do I make myself clear, Amerika?"

A silence played as the cool and dark aura that Ivan was producing swelled in the car and took America's response before he could make the time to think it.

"That is _enough_! From the both of you! Enough! I have heard bloody enough!" England snapped sharply, the car giving a slight jeer as he tried to keep enough of his composure to guide the vehicle properly in the rain.

Both Alfred and Ivan's attentions were stolen by the irate Briton, and were effectively kept when the car gave a slight swerve.

"If I hear one more bloody fucking word out you two sodding pilloks, I swear to the high and mighty lord above, not even _he_ will be able to save your souls from the divine retribution I am going to deal upon you _both_."

America oddly found his voice again there and he spluttered out, "B-but he-!"

The Britishman wouldn't hear it. "If you two say one more thing against each other," England warned, his voice turning his own brand of dangerous and dark, "I am going to turn this car around."

"H...How the fuck does _that_ help!?" America cried in outrage.

"Oh. It'll help plenty," Arthur replied evenly, his grip tightening on the wheel. He ignored France's comforting hand on his forearm in an attempt to quell his rage. "Because I'll have thrown you out of the car before then, and I will be turning around so I can _run the both of you over_." He added then. "Don't worry. I'll be turning right around again to get Matthew to a doctor."

"But he -"

"I. Don't. Care. I do not want to hear any more of you two and your stupid rivalry! If you want to argue, do it on your _own time_. Right now we don't have such bloody luxury of _having_ our own time, and neither does Matthew. Right now, Matthew is reliant on _us_, and it does him _no fucking good_ for you two to bitch-slap each other with nonsense about each other every five sodding seconds!"

America's mouth worked and he closed it quickly, slumping back in his seat.

Ivan was watching Arthur carefully, and had looked filled with rage all the way up until the man had mentioned Matthew. This was the first time that Alfred had fully caught Russia's expression dwindle right down then and there. He went from raving mad, to _almost _guilty. His face masked over before he could rightly tell, and Alfred decided he was too pissed still to really _care_.

When a second or more of nothing being said passed, England let out a few more sighs, pushed away France's hand, and he spoke again, calmer. "Good. Thank you. Look, I understand that we're all stressed, so now is not the time to let it run away with us, am I correct? So. Whatever grievances we may have, let us resolve them at a later time. Are we agreed?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"I agree."

"Good," England said evenly his voice softening back to normalcy and he nodded. "Thank you. Now," he said, adjusting his grip. "Let's see if I can finish navigating us through these storm-thrashed roadways to a doctor."

...

The car had stopped. This was a very important piece of information that America kept repeating to himself. The car was _stopped_. No, this time they did not have to deal with a truck clogging the middle of the road. That was not the reason. However, it definitely did not look like they were going to start moving for quite some time yet.

Before, they had been seated in the vehicle like this: England in the driver's, France in the front-passengers, Russia was sitting behind France and America was sitting behind England. And, most importantly, Canada had been draped between both Alfred and Ivan.

Their positions now in the vehicle had changed slightly.

It was pouring outside so badly, that England had to make the decision that they were to stop the car _now_ lest they crash into something and end up injuring them _all_ severely. It was a choice he hated to make, but it was a choice me made nevertheless.

He was lucky though, they were by buildings at the time of his decision, and when he pulled to a stop, he pulled up onto the sidewalk, and as close to the building as possible. He managed to get half of the car, from the driver's side, under the overhang, with enough wiggle room to get both the doors on that side open.

His seat was pulled forward as far as it could go, and it was collapsed so that America could sort of half-kneel beside Matthew's head, who was now being laid down completely in the vehicle.

It had only happened in the past ten or so minutes, with what at first was thought as just Matthew coming out of his sleepy stupor once again. But instead, his breaths had started to become labored as his body was starting to strain under all that it had been through; and they all were getting another worry to add to their ever-growing stack.

Why was Matthew sick? Why did he seem okay before? What about his arm? What about the meeting? Should they have told the other countries? Should they have stayed? What will they do about the storm? Why is it so stormy on today of all days!? Wait, why is Matthew breathing so heavily? What's wrong with him? What can they do!?

Those questions, and more, were demanded inside themselves.

Matthew's labored breaths were more than troubling for his brother. So he, with his strength, sat him up very slightly, one hand on Canada's back, the other supporting his head.

"C'mon Mattie..."

England himself was outside, under the overhang and he had the back door open. He held in his hand a wad of newspapers that he found in the back of Canada's car. He was attempted to fan some off the cold air into the stuffy car, hoping to see if that would help in some small way.

As he fanned, he spoke, "This is bloody ridiculous. This isn't a common cold. This just doesn't _happen_. This very well is probably some divine bloody joke." He snapped his attention to France, who was standing beside him. "Francis."

France paused, and he pulled out an ear-bud that was connected to an AM/FM radio tuner in his hands. "Yes, mon petite?"

"Are you bloody _sure_ there isn't some crisis happening in his country? Nothing exploded in one of his harbors again, did it? What about his economy? Have any of his glaciers started to melt? Volcanoes erupted? Anything? Is he having a bad election...? Is there civil unrest, a wa-"

His mouth was being covered by the soft-touch of a Frenchman. If it had been any other situation he'd have bit it.

"Shh. I am sure l'Angleterre. If there is something this bad... To make 'im _this_ ill. The news, even for 'im," he admitted guiltily, "Should be global knowledge. We'd _know_," he insisted. "There is nothing. Not a whisper."

"This doesn't help!"

"Yes. Yes it does. If it 'ad to do with 'is country, then Mathieu could die, non? At least this way we do not 'ave to worry about 'im doing that ..."

England threw down the newspapers in frustration. "Bloody hell! I know that! I _just don't want to watch him suffer._ I can't stand here _knowing_ that this has gotten worse because of _our_ neglect, and when we _are_ finally clear-headed enough to realize we need to help, we can't do a bloody thing!"

"Mon petite..."

"So I _want_ it to be a country-issue! That way I could do something, _anything_ and I know it can _help_."

"I know. I know." France said quietly and he looked at Matthew. "But I do not think 'e is _suffering_. That is your guilt talking. 'e 'as a fever and 'e is dealing with that, non? 'e is not suffering."

While France continued to comfort England, trying to get him to lose some of his unnecessary guilty thoughts, and America held Canada up slightly to catch more of the cool air (as well as try to will his brother to stop gasping), Ivan took assessment of the situation.

He could see by the GPS unit that they were not far away from a clinic at all. Sure, it was quite a few blocks away, and far faster by the car, but definitely within walking distance. However, it was the rain that hampered the car in the first place, and who's to say that walking in it was much better.

But at this rate, the rain would turn to hail, then turn to rain again, and from what he could see of the clouds, it was not going to let up any time soon. The wind had died down, so it seemed it was just going to hang over their heads for some time before it decided to move on.

They could get stuck under the building's protection for HOURS.

No. No this would not do, he decided this with his eyes narrowed. No this will _definitely_ not do.

He had a resolve, and he decided with all of himself that he needed to follow through on it.

He looked around the back of the car and fished up a plastic bag that was laying there. He'd have to talk to Matthew later about having a somewhat messy car, but that thought was shoved away from his thoughts. He already had a plan of action in mind. He was going to solve this problem _now_, because they could not afford, and he did not want to watch, this escalate any further than it already had.

Carefully, he unwound the red scarf around his neck, balled it up tightly, and put it in the bag. He knotted; double knotted and triple knotted the bag before sticking it on the inside of his coat pocket. Patting it to be sure it was secure, he was certain it'd stay warm and safe, no matter what.

Russia opened his car door, watching as rain _pounded _downwards (but thankfully not inside) and he stepped out of the vehicle, forcing open an umbrella he also located in the back, as he did so. The rain bucketed down on him, making a loud sound of a thousand pebbles slamming against that thin fabric.

"Ivan!" England shout over the din. "What are you doing? You can stay in the car!"

He did not listen; instead he walked around the back of the car, and beside the others that were outside the vehicle.

He bent over, looking at America. "We need to take Matvey out of the car. It will help much more, da?"

"Why in the blazes should we do that?" England moved to protest.

"Because we have to," Ivan was sharp and strict, but it was evident by his tone that he was also trying to not come off as offensive. Russia had a very clear intent in mind, and so he was not going to say or do anything that might hamper his goal's progress.

England exchanged glances with France, and they were both uncertain of why...

Russia rolled his eyes. They weren't going to do anything. It was clear that they now were both so involved in the situation, that they were going to be nothing but a nuisance, over-worrying about every little decision and taking ages before coming to a conclusion of what they wanted to do. They were useless now, and they weren't going to help in the slightest. So he was going to take matters in his own hands.

He reached into the car, and before America could protest, he hoisted Matthew up and out of the vehicle easily.

"H... hey!"

America scrambled out of the car after him, expression twisted to that of outrage.

"What the fuck are you _doing_?"

Russia gestured sharply. "I need you to get something waterproof for Matvey. Now."

America glared, "If you think I'm going to-"

"Now."

"- get something for someone like -"

"Now."

"- you then you got another thing com-"

"_NOW._"

Alfred felt a chill ram down his spine like it had been hammered there and he found himself stiffly turning around to go in the car, and fishing out the long black trench coat they had used earlier. He held it out to Russia, looking sufficiently spooked, but still managing to give him a disapproving air. As if he needed to display he wasn't happy about it.

Russia looked at him with raised eyebrows. Both his arms were occupied. One was holding Canada to himself; the other hand was gripping onto the long black handle of the folded umbrella. America caught the message fast. With a sound that he really didn't want to do this, Alfred took the coat and draped it over Matthew, and did his best to cover him up, leaving only his head.

"Good," Ivan stepped back, holding Canada carefully against his chest. The man's face was buried into him softly.

"We are going to _walk_ to the clinic, da?"

"W... walk!?" It was England's turn to sound outraged. "Walk. In that? Are you out of your mind? I am most certainly not going to _walk_ in that. Neither is Alfred, or Francis, for that matter. We aren't insane."

"Ah! Excellent. Because I was planning to walk whether you came along or not," Ivan said with an over-use of cheer and he turned. "Matvey needs a doctor. And I will take him, keep him warm and dry, and then I will get him to the doctor he needs."

He looked down at the heavy-breathed Canadian then back at the rest of his blonde family. "I think that he is more important here, da?" Ivan said, eyes narrowing. "It is strange how you focus so hard, yet you forget what you focus on."

With that being said, Ivan, managing to hold the entirely of Canada's weight with one arm, against his chest. He managed to force the umbrella in his other hand open and held it up above his head, and most importantly, Canada's.

He didn't look back at the three bewildered family members as he stepped out into the vicious onslaught of rain, and if they had said something, he didn't hear it. He didn't care either.

He had given himself a goal. He was going to complete it.

If a clinic was only that far away, and they were being stopped because it was too dangerous to drive? Then he was going to walk. If he was too dangerous for a person? Then too bad. He was a country. He did not fall into the regular bounds and restrictions of humanity, and while he could be afflicted like they could, he was not nearly so weak and pathetic.

He'd use his strength and determination and plow through it.

He forced himself to not think of the reason behind all this. He only focused on the action. Not the why.

He had gotten about ten yards away from the others when America's loud shouting could even be heard over the din of rain, and the slamming of the car door. Splashes of water and the sound of another umbrella opening soon followed.

America came up in his peripheral vision and he matched steps.

"You know, I'd hate to say it," Alfred said, looking up at Ivan. "But this is the best idea we got." He paused, and said the next words as if they were almost painful, "It's a good idea. Thank you."

Ivan was disturbed how he didn't feel any sort of gratification by America's words. He chose to just response. "I am glad you are coming," He heard more footsteps, "And that they are coming as well."

"Yeah well. We're family."

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**Author's Notes :**

This chapter was originally supposed to come out last Monday. Look how wonderfully that turned out. I feel terrible about it, but I… I just couldn't get it done for then. I am terribly sorry. I really _don't_ want there to be two week spaces between chapter updates. So I shall try harder to update within a time-frame that _isn't_ two weeks. Auuugh.

Also… I hope the dream sequence wasn't too confusing. Like I had mentioned in my first chapter, a lot of Matthew's reactions are based on things I've felt before (though not as severe as the poor lad).

I hope you enjoyed.

Weird fact : I wrote this chapter in three colours. Black, cyan and blue. It looks really funny in rtf format... XD

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**Chapter Eight Preview : **In the home stretch, but far away from recovery. It was one thing to find out what was wrong, a whole other to deal with it.

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Thanks for reading! Read and Review please!

(Or Belarus will try to get ... married...)

Augh, I keep saying this… But you guys are so awesome. Reviews, fan art and some PM's. So very awesome and very nice of you all. Whenever you guys do this, it makes me know that you definitely want me to continue!

I can't _believe_ on how incredibly nice, awesome, and… awesome your reviews are. I mean, I'm always blown away. Every time. Just. Blown. Away.

YOU ARE ALL AWESOMNESS PERSONIFIED. (Even better than Gilbert.)


	8. Just Don't Rain on Him

**Disclaimer of this Chapter : **Some swears, but this chapter kinda lightens up on them.

**Ownership : **I saw some of those coin figures... and I want them. But I STILL DOWN OWN HETALIA. I never will. Baww.

**Important Note : **ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down a nation in question. This is based off of characterizations, and not the countries involved. Thanks very much.

More Fanart? You guys are awesome. Seriously. This also made my day. So crazy-awesome. Fantastic.

From Chapter 2 :

edwardismybf(dot)deviantart(dot)com / art / Whats-this-163133437

Remember: I put links to all the awesome fanart on my profile page. So please check them out and please comment if you can!

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**Chapter Eight Summary **: Scarves are red, England is blue, it's just so sad, we don't know what to do for you...

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**- Chapter 8 - Just Don't Rain on Him - **

There was no further argument from America, France or England when it became clear what Russia's intent had been. Arthur almost wanted to slap himself in the face and chide that he was an utter idiot for not thinking of that in the first place. Sure, the weather may have been not very road-safe, but that was no excuse for disregarding that his own two legs were not good enough for the job.

He feared his subconscious want for his _own_ comfort may have driven him to assume that it was just not an option they had.

Begrudgingly, he had to also admit that it was bloody _cold_ and _wet_. It did not help that there were only three umbrellas between the five of them. Russia, of course, had one, and he was mostly holding it over Matthew to keep the only exposed part of him dry.

'_Good_,' Arthur thought with a mental parental nod. '_I certainly don't mind that.'_

The second umbrella was being held by America, who was matching strides with Ivan, and was taking up any slack, just in case Russia's umbrella blew askew when a heavy gale decided to push that way. Though, no such thing had happened yet (as Russia was a very strong man), Arthur felt assured that between them not a drop would touch Matthew's fevered flesh.

'_Also good_,' Arthur concluded that thought. '_I can't say I'd like for Matthew to suddenly get hit by an onslaught of this weather_.' He paused, '_Again_,' he added for good measure, albeit bitterly.

The last umbrella was the one that was giving him his grief. It was the umbrella he was basically forced to share with a certain _other country_. At first, he had been the one to hold it, and he did so at almost an arms length. Both himself and Francis decided to stand as far away from each other as possible. Though, at the same time as they tried to avoid each other, they tried to stay under the umbrella's protective cover.

That quickly proved to be fruitless endeavour; either the umbrella dripped water on their heads, they were half-rained on, or they lost it completely, it was obvious that trying to avoid one-another under an _umbrella_ of all things, in a thunderstorm, _might_ not have been the best decision in the world.

He grunted to himself now. It was bloody _embarrassing_. He was _not_ a young lass that needed saving by a bloody git of a Frenchman. Ah... But there he was…

Because of the weather, the fact their umbrella was only _so big_, and taking in their height differences, England had to rather begrudgingly take on a different position if they had to assure that they _both_ stayed somewhat dry.

Francis held the umbrella, and he, England, had to hold onto his arm. Like... like... some _woman_. He felt so bloody ridiculous clinging to France's arm, sidled so _close_ to the other man. Not that he'd have preferred it much better if it was the other way around. But damnit! He was a _gentleman_ not some fair maiden that needed this sort of treatment.

He glanced at France. He half-expected the man's face to be tinged in a blush, but he found none. Instead the deep blue eyes were focused steadily before him, and he did not need to trace the stare to know where he was looking. But he did so anyway.

He looked at Matthew, bundled up in a long trench coat, rain spattering down on his limp form, but he was being kept mostly dry now by the large man that carried him. Limp, pale, heaving heavy and fevered breaths, that's how Canada was. England knew that was the only reason why France was not gushing that very moment on their very 'intimate' position they were both now in. He felt a moment of elation and triumph for that, before it weeded away into guilt on the fact that even for a moment he forgot why it was necessary they were there in a first place. He mentally breathed a sorry to Canada and decided to focus on where his shoes were walking next.

For a time, no other sound but the steady pounding of rain, the slosh of his shoes in the puddles, the 'vip' of wet fabric against fabric as he made quick strides to get closer to their new destination.

Francis' soft sigh punctuated the repetitive sounds and he finally spoke, easy to hear because of their close proximity, but probably fell onto deaf ears when it concerned the other three that were in front.

"L'Angleterre," France began voice still heavy with accent as he was still obviously stressed. At the very least the man had not come to converting completely to French. What a bloody headache that would have been. "What do you think the doctor will say about 'im?" He finally asked.

Arthur listened to his footsteps against the concrete for a moment before he answered, only sparing a glance at France. "Well, if I knew that then I would've done something for Matthew right away," He tried to say without frustration, but was doing a poor job of veiling it.

"Hmn," Francis hummed. "It is... stressful, non?" He paused. "I wonder how this 'appened."

"As I said before; if I knew that, then I would have _done_ something with that knowledge. So stop saying things I don't bloody well know the answer to."

He paused, thinking bitterly now. He knew that he had forgotten Matthew on several occasions now; within the same _day_ even. It was more than ridiculous and he had no idea why it kept happening. He also had a bad feeling that perhaps his neglect was what caused it to get so bad in the _first_ place. He also couldn't leave the twinging fear of what if he just entirely forgot about him when he was like -

No! No! Banish the thoughts! '_You have not forgotten him Arthur. You are fully aware of Canada now, and there is no way in bloody hell you are going to let him slip from your radar. Or so help you...'_

France was watching England's expressions morph to several things and flitted out a sigh. "I suppose it cannot be 'elped that this 'appened."

England felt a prick at those words and he turned to look at Francis with a sharp form of scolding. "I am not in the mood to fight, but may I _remind_ who decided to leave him in his room _alone_, Francis? Or shall I clear your memory for you? It certainly _could_ have been bloody well helped, or maybe it could have been _better_."

France frowned, nodded quietly, and looked away.

... Huh. Well then. He felt no gratification from that.

Arthur himself emitted a sigh and looked away from the gaze-adverted Frenchman. No gratification at all...

. . .

They were all surprised on how much of a blur time became the moment they hit the clinical office. They all expected for it to suddenly feel like they were trying to wade waist-deep in molasses, but instead time slipped by so fast that they nearly could not recall what had actually _happened_. Events that took anywhere between a minute to an hour _should _have felt like ages, but instead they whipped past like a blur.

The countries had gotten to the clinic, and the process of getting Matthew to a doctor was quick, nearly seamless. One would suppose that was not surprising considering four men came through the door, sopping wet, and one was holding someone who looked they required serious care _immediately_. It also helped that the resident doctor had been stuck in his office without patient, and only his secretary and his nurse to keep him company. There were no waiting times.

Canada was whisked away from them almost immediately. It would be later on when they would come to the pleasant discovery that the doctor was a man that not only had clinical experience, but appeared to have extensive experience with hospital duty and the ER. So when they had the time to think, and realise this fact, it proved to be of some comfort. Though not much, it was still highly unnerving to watch the man hoist Matthew's limp form up and away and rushed him into a clinical room, asking for the nurse to come to his aid.

This place should've been for checkups and ear-infections. Not something like this.

There had been a debate then, while the doctor took Matthew in the other room to get rid of the wet clothes, get him into something dry, and onto the examination bed, of _who_ was going to be in the room with him while the examination and diagnosis took place.

Someone was going to have to explain everything, but who? France was instantly denied. He himself was not completely informed of the whole situation. Russia, completely unreadable, refused to be the one to go in the room, and instead sat himself down in one of the waiting room chairs and looked as completely indifferent to the situation as he possibly could.

So it was down to America and England. Alfred stated that he was Matthew's brother, so it was his duty to stay by his side and do as brothers did. Arthur stated that he was Matthew's _father_ and he had much higher priority than Alfred did in these situations.

"Alfred," England said tersely. "I know that you want to do the good and noble thing, but I think I should be the one to explain the situation, and be in the room with him."

"Why? I can do it. It's fine. I can handle stuff like that easy," Alfred gestured with his hand. "Mattie's my brother. What kind of hero am I if I don't stay by my little brother's side when he needs me?"

England sighed, his temple creasing as his eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Alfred," he started again, his voice lower but more intent was placed in his tone, "I _need_ to be the one, alright? You've already done so much, and that's just the thing. At the very beginning? It was _me_. I had been the one to discover it and I all but bloody well ignored it. I did _worse_ than that. I assumed that he was just _you_ playing a trick on me and I decided to _ignore_ what was clear in front of me. Please Alfred."

"That's sorta the reason why I want to -"

"Please. It's not like I'm asking you to leave altogether, but the doctor can't have more than one of us hounding around him. I'll _tell_ you all the details; I'll ask you to come in if we need you, so please?"

Alfred regarded his 'parent' for a moment then he let out a puff of air that moved his damp bangs. "Fine. Okay. You go on up and ahead with Mattie, okay?" He crossed his arms. "Just don't leave out any details, and if you want to leave, just come and get me."

England looked relived and he smiled slightly. "Really? Thank you very much Alfred. This means much. Very noble of you," he thanked.

Just then the doctor came into view from the hallway, clearly he was done with getting Matthew all set up with whatever it was he was setting him up with. England caught that, and saw the gesture for one of them to come with him. With one last nod of thanks to Alfred, he turned and left the waiting room.

Alfred plopped down in a random chair, hands dangling over his knees.

And so they waited.

. . .

It seemed like England was in there forever, or no time at all. Certainly the time of which he was in there felt like ages. It felt like it dragged on and on and on, and the only thing Alfred could hear was the ticking of the clock, or the turning of magazine pages as Ivan had the _gall_ to be reading something at a time like this. Of all the fucking nerve.

Time wore on, but at the same time, streaked past as Alfred checked the clock every minute or so to _will_ the time to go faster. Or he looked at the hallway, to _will_ England to come out.

Over half an hour passed, then an hour, then it was approaching an hour and fifteen and America was getting antsy, his legs bouncing up and down in a nervous tick he knew his brother had, but he himself so rarely used.

Then when he was just about to exclaim his frustration of it all, of the anticipation, of the anxiety, England finally reappeared at the hallway. Two heads looked up at him eagerly, one passively, ready and wanting to drink in the information he no doubt had for them. There was no way he could have been in there for so long and _not_ have something to tell them.

Alfred had stood up when England's footsteps were heard, but stopped when he saw the man's face.

He felt his stomach drop and he paled. He swallowed then made quick strides and grabbed Arthur by the shoulders tightly, his grip strong but the other country made no reaction to it, nor any effort to remove it.

"What's with that face?" Alfred quickly demanded, and he looked at the hallway then back at him. "What's wrong? Does he know what's wrong with Mattie?" Before England could reply he barked, "Damnit! I knew we should have gone to the hospital instead. Damnit, why did we decide that going to the clinic was better just because the roads were safer and it was closer... fucking..."

"Alfred," England caught his attention.

"... What did the doctor say?" He asked, more carefully that time around.

England looked tired, a bit pale, but definitely tired, and stressed, "He... Well I can tell you right now that he doesn't have a cold, or the flu, or the mumps or the measles or any other _trivial_ thing."

America's stomach tightened further and as did his grip.

England continued. "I'm not sure, I'm not a doctor, but he mentioned something about an infection? Internally? He may have said bacterial or... viral... I'm not sure anymore," he rubbed his forehead. "But whatever it is it is _not_ just the bloody sodding flu."

"How did he -"

"I don't know. Please don't blame me for this, but I just told the doctor to just treat him and leave me out of any gruesome details of _how_ he got it, or what _exactly _it is... At least until I can be assured he's going to get better. But all I can think of now is the fact that he is being ravaged from the _inside_. Bloody hell." He rubbed his temple. "I just asked him if he could _treat_ him."

"A-and...?"

"He said yes, to the best of his ability of what he has and where we are now. He assured me that he can still treat him even if the power goes out." He muttered, "Surprised it hasn't already…"

Alfred's body couldn't decide if it wanted to be relieved, or not. Instead he remained stiff and he let go of Arthur almost mechanically.

"... And Mattie...?" He dared to ask.

"Matthew..." England started. His voice felt tight all the sudden, which he hadn't expected. He cleared his throat, muttering a soft, 'excuse me'. He adjusted his stance and tried again. "Ma-Matthew…" thiswas choked out, and he looked just as surprised as America was.

Alfred had gone pale and Arthur waved his hands franticallt, "No no no!" He said, finding that his eyes had pricked with tears and some were falling freely. "It isn't that -" He said, voice washed with a few lights sobs. "Bloody hell!"

America looked suddenly terrified, and England, more than surprised at the fact he was _crying_ now, put one of his hands over one of his eyes, and the other took Alfred's shoulder before he decided to dash into the room where Matthew was.

"M-... Matthew is _not_..." he tried again. "Bloody hell Arthur you have n-no reason to cry!" He scolded himself sharply, berating the tears that were now falling. "Stop that!"

Alfred's eyes flicked from looking at the hallway in panic, to looking down at England with sheer surprise.

"M-Matthew isn't any _worse_ than he-he was before! He's being treated!" England managed to say, his voice growling and biting at his own public display of being such a _Nancy boy_.

He was relieved. _Relieved_. He was relieved and happy that Canada was going to get some treatment, and they were hopefully going to see some improvement soon! The doctor certainly didn't give him any ominous predictions, and the man seemed pretty certain of what he had to do to help his son. So why the bloody fuck was he _crying!?_

Maybe it was because he was relieved. Or perhaps he was just so fed up with the situation he couldn't contain it any longer.

Shamed, Arthur covered his eyes with his forearm; trying to force his tears to dry with shaky, hiccoughing, and strained sobs.

"Don't you _dare_ laugh," England grit out, rubbing at his eyes bitterly. "Don't you _dare_ laugh," he repeated.

How foolish was he?

America's voice was low and quiet. "I wasn't gunna laugh..." He said carefully after a minute of watching his father-figure poorly contain his stress. His panic had melted away when he realised that this was all England.

"Like bloody hell you weren't."

England berated himself mentally for letting something like this even _happen_, and he scolded himself further that he should never let it happen again.

As he did his mental-berating, his shoulders were suddenly grabbed, and he was tugged into someone's chest warmly. He was held for a few seconds, tightly, and reassuringly, before he was let go and pushed back to where he stood before. His green eyes were opened in frank surprise, a few more beads of tears falling away and streaked down his cheeks.

A large hand ruffed up his hair and America smiled down at him. "You said that Matthew was being treated, right? And that he's no worse than before? Then that's good, right? So don't get all upset over it!" Alfred said as cheerily as he could force himself to be at that time, and he showed teeth for good measure.

England just looked at him dumbly. His breaths were already evening out so soon after he had started, but a few shaky breaths remained as well as the last straggling tears.

America gave a hum, held up a finger and with his other hand he dug in his coat pocket. He produced a luridly red, white and blue, star-spangled kerchief. He held it out for England to take, and Arthur did so without question. The Englishman gave a few sniffs, navigated himself to a chair and only dabbed at his eyes with it.

France moved himself beside Arthur and England thusly ignored him. He was not some _woman_…

America watched England for a moment or two more, satisfied that his father-figure's tears were quelling. Holy shit he had scared the crap out of him when he started doing that though, he was afraid that he was just about to tell him that Canada was severely ill and that he wasn't going to make it or that he was dying or...

... Something equally as bad or possibly worse.

Shit... This was going to be a _long_ night.

. . .

_More_ time passed, and the four of them in the waiting room were letting the time streak past without much further thought on _anything_ in particular. England had stopped his tears some number of minutes ago and he was attempting to loose himself in a magazine, but failing miserably.

Alfred had been pacing back and forth in the waiting room. Russia made the snobbish comment that he looked like he was waiting for the birth of his first child, to which America responded with a swift 'fuck you' in the form of a middle finger.

He stopped when he saw the doctor.

"Well?" He said eagerly, the first to approach the man.

It had been quite a while since the left the man and his nurse alone with his brother; quite some time since England left. So surely there was some change now?

"Well..." The doctor said, looking through his chart on his clipboard and back up to Alfred. "I've given him the best of what I have in storage right now. Something I hope will fight against the infection and something else for his temperature. I can tell you right now though that his fever has gone down."

Alfred brightened. "Really!?"

The doctor gave a light smile. "Yes. We took the proper measures; I've encountered high fevers like this many times in the ER. I used some medication, but mostly cold packs put in strategic places to help lower his temperature. His fever is down from where it was, and measuring at around 102 degrees. Far more manageable then it was before. Much safer."

America looked back at the others with a smile and he spoke to the doctor excitedly. "And is he...?"

"... Awake?" The doctor asked, gesturing down the hall. "Yes."

America's sky-blue eyes could not go any wider and it was evident he was just about to book it down the hallway to see his brother. His feet looked like they were itching to make a breath for it, and the doctor had to grab his wrist before he could do that.

"Now... Mr. Jones, it was? You have to be _careful_, alright? His fever might be down but he is still very ill you understand? And I am mostly sure he is not contagious, I don't have a way to get lab results to be sure, but I want you to exercise caution. Just to be safe."

"Yeah. Okay," he said quickly. "Can I see Mattie now?"

The doctor let go of his arm. "Go right ahead. I certainly don't think I'd be able to stop you if I said no."

"Yes!" He pumped a fist in the air and he moved to dash down the hallway, ready to turn a corner -

"Mr. Jones!" the doctor's voice called and Alfred skittered to a stop. "He's in the room going the _other_ direction!"

Alfred looked behind him. "Oh! Right!" He then turned and dashed, "Thanks!"

America skittered to where obviously Matthew was kept, the only examination room that had the door ajar and the light on. Alfred wasted no time in pushing the door open and rushing inside.

He nearly scared the bajeesus out of Canada, who was laying back with his eyes closed softly, drowsily thinking to himself before he was loudly shocked into a near-heart attack when the door slammed open, loud exclamations following soon after.

Alfred grabbed the stool and he sat on it, using the rest of he momentum to let it glide the last two feet right up to Matthew's bedside. All of it was a perfect display of American showiness and dramatasism.

Canada let his breaths quell and he looked at America was tired violet eyes. "... Alfred?"

America's face softened and he reached out and put a hand on Matthew's head. "Hey Matt," he said as cheerfully as he once-again could muster. "... How are you feeling?"

"Tired," Matthew admitted softly, answering him quickly and without much pause. "L-like a truck ran me over me… and forgot to leave me behind. Or l-like I sunk in a lake or something..." He stated, shifting. "This blanket feels like a lead weight."

"It's just a sheet," Alfred observed.

"I know. I... I feel like I'm made of lead."

Alfred clicked his tongue then took in his brother's appearance. He looked ragged and worn, dark circles were apparent, slight and faded just under his eyes, his skin was pale, and his cheeks still had that flush that had been adorning them all day.

He noticed that Matthew had been changed into a t-shirt again, but uncertain of what he wore other than that. Shorts maybe? Or whatever set of pants or pyjama bottoms that doctor could muster up from heck-knows-where. The man did seem like the type to have an over-abundance of supplies laying around…

Alfred noticed something else. He carefully picked up Canada's good arm and looked at it, then looked at him.

"I never noticed before Matt, but you're kinda thin."

"I've always been thin."

America licked his lips in thought then looked back at his poor younger brother. "No, I mean, you look thin. Like, thinner than I thought you were. I mean, I know you're a lean and wiry guy, but you look honestly _thin_."

Matthew blinked. "Oh... Oh. The d-doctor asked me about that. I think. Forgive me, my mind is hazy," he said quietly. "He was… questioning me about before today."

America perked, putting down Canada's arm and did good by covering his brother up to the chin with the sheet. "And...?"

"I guess I never realised it, but... I guess I kinda have been loosing weight recently," he said quietly with a small note of realization. "Not badly, but I had noticed that I have been loosing some weight. And on a body like mine a little bit goes a long way appearance wise..."

"Oh Mattie..."

"I also have been _tired_ recently, now that I think about it. Perhaps I'm doing something wrong..."

"No no. You weren't doing anything wrong. I highly doubt it. You're like, Canada. It's kinda hard for you to do shit wrong. You just didn't notice." He said. _'And neither did I_,' he added to his thoughts. "Don't worry about it."

Matthew closed his eyes for a second and gave a sound. "I feel so e-exhausted Al. I'm sorry. I can remember some things cl-clearly and some things... not so much. I do know I've been a huge bother... For everyone. You, Papa, Dad... even Russia."

"What? No! You're not a bother! Look, if France heard you say that he'd say something like : Non! Mon petite is not a trouble! Non non!" He put his hands to his cheek in a poor, but somehow accurate, impression of Matthew's 'papa'.

Canada gave a small laugh.

"And if ol Iggy-Eyebrows heard you say that he'd be all : Bullocks. Cow toes. Insert English insult here. You aren't a bloody trouble!" His voice twisted to that of a fairly good English accent. Despite it being an entirely _wrong_ accent for his father.

Canada's laugh got a little louder that time. Alfred had screwed his face up to the most convincing England-scowl he had seen in ages.

"And if Mr. Scarf heard you? He'd be all : I came because I could, da? You were no trouble, da? If you had I would not be here, da? Because I am big _scary_ Russian, da?"

Matthew gave a snort. "_Нет_. He do-doesn't say it that much."

America grinned with a dopey smile and let the fact his brother dare utter a Russian word slide. Just this once. He was just so thankful to hear his brother talk clearly and without the haze of a heavy fever tainting his every word. Whatever it was that the doctor did, it worked. Even if it took a few hours.

"Yeah well," Alfred said, "I don't care, da?" He smiled.

Matthew gave another small laugh, then his face fell to discomfort for a split second.

"Something wrong...?"

"Hmmn...? Ah... No. I just feel... uncomfortable. I feel wrong all over really. A sour feeling...?" He offered. "I don't h-hurt, but I feel sour."

Alfred hummed and he ruffed up Matthew's hair again before he drew back.

Canada shifted again while America watched him, and his eyes flickered, threatening to fall shut again.

"You can sleep, you know," America said, after watching Matthew's eyes droop then flick open for the seventh time. "It's not a big deal."

"I've been d-doing a lot of that lately," Matthew muttered. "I don't want… to keep doing it. I'll sleep my whole day away before I k-know it."

"Well," Alfred said, "Today has already gone by in such a rush. It's actually getting pretty late. It's already pitch-black outside, you know. Sleep is in order. You should sleep. I mean, I'm sure the doctor would scold you and tell you that you should sleep when you're tired."

"Mmn."

"Ah ah. None of that," he joked. "Don't be all stubborn on me Mattie." He pulled up the second sheet that was curled at the end of the bed and tucked it neatly at Canada's chin. "None of that. Look, you sleep, so will we. We'll all probably be trying to find a place to curl up soon. So... Sleep. Because it'll be boring to stare at the ceiling all by yourself."

"… Okay."

He could tell by the tiredness of Canada's voice that he was fighting a losing battle against the tug of a restful sleep and by the time that America had stood up, leaned over, and pressed a brotherly kiss to his heated forehead, Matthew was already quietly slumbering in dreamland.

He snuffed air out of his nose and smiled softly brushing back some of the blonde hair; relief played in that smile. "G'night Mattie."

This time, he didn't worry. His brother wasn't being claimed by illness, just sheer exhaustion brought on by it. Sleeping was far different than unconsciousness. Sleeping was something he could deal with, and something he knew that Matthew needed. It wasn't something to stress about.

He lifted his hand and made a movement to leave.

He turned, and jumped. He saw Francis, Arthur and Ivan standing at the doorway. America turned an uncharacteristic shade of pink and he fitted his hands in his pockets and scuffed his boot. "If you say one word about me kissin' him goodnight on the forehead like that I'm going to punch every single one of you," he said quickly, as if any of them were to comment on the scene they no doubt just witnessed.

France was smiling, England had a smirk. "Oh I wouldn't dream of it. I do recall that I did the very same to the both of every night when you went to bed. You were so small then. It's a sweet gesture Alfred. I'm sure Matthew appreciates it. How very brotherly of you."

America didn't want to acknowledge that really, still embarrassed with being caught being that _tender_. Sure... They might be brothers but it was still embarrassing to know someone had witnessed that.

"So is 'e out again?" Francis asked. "Is 'e asleep...?"

"Yeah. Poor Matt. He's so exhausted. He looks as he says he feels. Like he was run over by a truck. I think it's going to take a while before he pulls out of this one 100%. At least we don't have to worry about him reaching his boiling point on us."

"Oui..." France agreed. "For now, we will wait, and see 'ow 'e is in the morning, non?"

"So Matvey is asleep again?" Russia asked, leaning in the room slightly, over the heads of both England and France.

America addressed him, "Yeah I just said that. Out like a light. We ain't gunna see much from him for some time I think."

"Hmn," Ivan hummed, looking over at Matthew's still very sickly appearing, form (though he was somewhat better from what he could tell at that distance). "Hopefully the doctor has done his job, da? Hopefully he has found what is wrong with Matvey and he will get better soon."

They stepped a little more into the room, and Russia pulled the door shut for a moment. There was a reason for this, as the three had begun discussing something in the waiting room, and realized that perhaps they should stop before they started to mention things that would arouse suspicions. Or perhaps send them to a nice white room with padded walls…

They weren't going to hound Matthew, but they needed a quick place to discuss. So they conjugated by the doorway and pulled America into the conversation as so he was not left in the dark.

Russia spoke up first. "So... Do we tell the doctor we are countries, or do we leave it at that, da? Surely we have already slipped up, but he might just think they are nicknames, yes?"

England gestured. "No. I don't think he should know. Look, if he knows, that throws a huge wrench into the works. On one hand, he could become overly cautious and might not treat Matthew as a normal patient, in fear he'd do something wrong, or two, he might have a grievance against Canada for whatever reason and..."

"Oh he wouldn't _dare_."

"Oh but he could! Imagine, if you were put in this position. He has an ailing _nation_ in his hands. He very well could take advantage of that fact. No, he couldn't kill him, but damage could be done... I say we can't risk it. Matthew is just Matthew Williams here. Just as I am Arthur Kirkland and the rest of you are anything _but_ your countries."

A silence; and they nodded. That wasn't the only reason they agreed though. Imagine what would have happened if it got out that America, England, Russia, Canada and France were out and about together? It would cause a kind of political storm! Something they couldn't risk, really. They were there just as family members (or an extra), and not on the behalf of the nations they lived and breathed.

"Good," England clasped his hands together. "Glad that's agreed on. Now. Shall we try to figure out what we'll be doing for lodging for the night? It's still bloody pissing rain outside."

France started to turn the door handle so they could leave the small room. Leave Canada in peace.

As they left to go to the waiting room, first England, then France, followed by America, Russia held his former ground and he watched them yatter their way back to the meeting room, far more relaxed than how they had been before.

He watched, eyes narrowed, a somewhat dark aura littering the world around him in a haze. He glanced at the doctor, who appeared to be walking to come to the room, but the man mustn't of had anything important to do, as the moment he saw Ivan and his expression, he turned straight on his heel and back around to the waiting room.

Russia could swear he heard the man say something aloud like, 'I'll help you all find lodgings. Why don't you stay here...?'

Ivan snuffed air out of his nose, re-entered Matthew's room, and shut the door quietly.

He pulled out the stool that America had formerly sat upon, and perched himself upon it himself. He knit his fingers together and he looked down at the ailing nation that lay there on the examination table that had turned into a pretty good makeshift bed.

At first, he questioned _why_ he was there, what was there to see other than Canada pathetically lay there? Then he paused, thinking of something, and he reached into his coat, pulling out the plastic bag that had the red scarf inside. He untied it, and unraveled the scarf.

"Matvey," Russia began. "Matvey."

Canada gave a mumble in his throat at the sound of his name.

Russia leaned slightly. "Matvey."

Matthew emit a low groan and he shifted, his purple eyes flickering open and locking onto Ivan hazily. "... mmn...?"

Russia sat back with a creak, holding the scarf between his fingers and he said nothing. He just regarded the Canadian laying down in the makeshift bed.

Matthew blinked back into the world of wakefulness, eyes heavy and tired, feeling completely drained. He saw Ivan more clearly now, finally recognizing the man; and he seemed shocked to seem him there. Slowly he sat up, pushing himself up with his elbows to a slight sitting-up position. Ivan didn't so much as stop him.

"I... Ivan?" Canada questioned with a heavy voice. "What...?"

Ivan reached out his hand, holding out the red scarf. He held it in front of Canada, as if urging him to take it. The tired and ill Canadian blinked at what was being offered to him, and with a tentative hand, Matthew delicately took the scarf from him. He certainly was more than confused.

Russia then stood up quickly, the stool scraping back against the tile of the floor.

He was reaching for the doorknob when Matthew softly called out to him, already lying back against the pillow. "Wait. Russia."

Ivan paused, turning his head only a fraction to show that he heard and acknowledged the Canadian. "Yes, Matvey?" He responded simply, carefully.

"I... I gave this to you... D-didn't I?" He said, handing the soft woolen scarf.

Russia turned.

Canada continued, swallowing as his throat felt dry. "I gave this to you. I went to my car to get this for you. I... Is it not good enough? D-do you not need it anymore? Perhaps you found your scarf again?" He questioned, eyebrows crinkled. He regarded the Russian, but didn't see his trademark scarf, so that couldn't be it.

Ivan turned away from the door and stepped to the side of the bed.

"Before you asked why I had it. I merely was giving it back. I am not a thief, Matvey," he added, perhaps a little darker than intended.

"W-what? I n... never said you were a thief. I don't remember... Maybe I was confused. Because I remember," he gestured. "Giving this to you..."

He held it out.

Russia made no movements to get it.

Canada gestured with the scarf again, only to have Ivan refuse once more with his eyes. Matthew drew back, eyes apologetic, holding the warm, soft, and hand-knitted garment.

Normally, Russia would have left it at that, and have left after returning the foolish thing, but he spoke instead, "I do not need someone else's things, Matvey. I will do fine with my own," he said, simply.

Matthew looked at his scarf for a few long moments, thinking quietly as he gently handled the fabric in his two hands. He seemed downcast, disappointed that Russia was giving back what he had lent him. Though he also had an air of pondering, as if he was trying to figure things out for himself in regards to the red scarf; trying to come to some conclusion or another.

After a moment, and nearly long enough to cause Ivan to want to leave again, Matthew spoke up, clearer. "Russia... Close your eyes for a second, okay?"

"Why do I want to do th-"

"Do it please?"

He paused, regarded the Canadian, and sighed. He turned more towards Matthew, and he closed his eyes. Not really knowing what Matthew was up to, but he knew he was soon to find out. Why _was_ he humoring this pathetic nation? He had no reason to beyond the fact that he found it amusing. But the thing was...? _He didn't find it amusing_. It wasn't amusing at all. So it was not the sweet taste of playing a _game_ that urged him on.

He felt one of his hands being taken softly, and he almost reflexively swatted it away, but he continued to _humor_ Matthew and thus only his hand twitched instead. Something was being placed in it, and then his hand was let go of.

"Okay. Open your eyes."

Russia opened his eyes and looked down at his right hand. In it, was the scarf.

Ivan's eyes narrowed sharply and he spoke Canada harshly, "Is this some kind of jo-"

"Happy birthday?" Matthew said pathetically, giving a tired and weak smile, but an honest one, and he gestured forward. "Happy too-early or too-late birthday."

Not even Ivan had the ability to hide his confusion after that, and he stared at Matthew numbly. Happy Birthday? Just what was he talking about? It wasn't his birthday. Far from it. So why was he wishing him a happy birthday just now? Maybe something was seriously wrong with the Canadian still. Perhaps the fever had risen again. Or the delusions were permanent now…

Canada spoke with an innocent smile and he lay back down, "... You s-said you don't need anything that isn't yours." He gave a grunt as he felt the sour feeling again of discomfort. "So..." he began after a moment or two, "It's yours. As a... early or late birthday present. You can have it. It's yours to keep."

"Matvey I..."

"It's rude to give it back, you know," Canada said, adjusting himself weakly. "You shouldn't give back birthday presents. Especially on the day you got them..."

Ivan attempted the darker approach. He put on an air of upset and tried to form an aura to match. He glowered at the ignorance of the Canadian but kept his voice even, "_Matvey _this is not what I-"

"So, happy early or late Birthday..." Matthew said tiredly, but full of stubbornness. His eyes began their fight against closing again; flickering shut only to open again with equal persistence. His violet eyes focused determinedly onto Ivan until he was assured that he had 'won' this little battle.

"... Matvey..." Ivan said, but had no ability to keep his angry voice then so it just petered out. He was just too stunned. Far, far too stunned.

"No if's, and's or but's," Matthew said tersely, almost with a voice that England would have used when scolding a child. He then chuckled softly. "S'okay... you can have it... okay...?"

Ivan folded. He folded like a deck of cards in a dealer's hands. "Okay. It is mine then, da?" He said in his normal voice, as if he hadn't been affected by Canada and his persistence at all. "Mine to keep, yes?"

"Yours to keep..." Matthew confirmed tiredly, his voice fading. "Forever and ever..."

"..." Russia tilted his head, watching as Canada slipped out of the world of the wakeful once more.

It definitely did not turn out as he had expected. He had fully expected for himself to have given the useless thing back to Matthew and been done with it. Now he found himself in permanent possession of the thing. The complete opposite of what he was intending.

Just what kind of country _was_ he?

He closed his hand around the object for a second or more, and then he wrapped it back around securely around his neck. That's right. He didn't _borrow _things from others. He didn't use other's people's things, especially if they were lent to him out of pity.

... But this was now his.

Russia adjusted it carefully around his neck until it felt just right, not a perfect fit, but close enough until he found his other scarf. Before he turned out of the room he slipped Canada's hands back under his sheets pulled the covers up to his chin and _then_ finally turned to leave.

He wondered for a moment if Canada would end up remembering any of this. Perhaps most of it would be drowned out in a fever-induced haze of exhaustion and he'd only have a faint recollection that something between them could have transpired.

Or perhaps he'd remember?

Oh well. Such thoughts were not important.

He left Matthew's temporary 'room' and he closed the door, entering the waiting room where the others were rolling out futons that the doctor had piled away in emergency cases.

It was his now. And forgetting the exchange or not, he was _not_ going to give it back.

"Oi," America broke Ivan's thoughts. "Russia. Why dun' cha help us with shifting some of those big-ass chairs outta the way so we can have sleeping room and not be all squashed together?"

Russia said nothing; he adjusted his red scarf one more, moving to heave a pair of chairs up effortlessly.

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**Author's Notes :**

I need to _stress_ this. I on purposely didn't go into heavy-detail with the medical reasoning behind how Matthew is. I left it as general as possible. First of all, I always found long-winded sessions with doctors to be rather boring, and also, I don't _really_ need to give you guys any more information than is given.

XD So sorry if you expected a long explaination and an exact disease. It really was nothing that exciting. __

I also apologize if anything is incorrect. I um... am just a writer eh? Not a doctor. XD This is allll a storryyyy yess.

Also, but I am sure you all know. "_Нет__" _means "No" In Russia. I do beleive. I'm not Russian, so I do not know for sure. XD

Oh... and England crying...? Ehehehe... It seemed like something he'd do. I mean, he just came out from over an hour of having to deal with a doctor and Matthew and there's just been so much stress! __ I'd have started crying ages before him. Poor bloke. I think I ought to give him some Earl Grey really soon. That or some good English Breakfast... Maybe some Orange Peakoe... XD

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**Chapter Nine Preview :** Forced to stay the night at the clinic is not that bad of a prospect. But come morning, they realise that it all doesn't end there. Matthew was still ill.

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Thanks for reading! **Read and Review please**!

(Or... Or... You will make Matthew cry. Please don't do that.)

Gahhh you guys are still so cool. Hopefully this chapter will go over well too. I am serious amazed by you guys always. I have a few reviewers who I recognise each time, and it's these people I always look forward to reading with baited breath. ('cause Imma dork like that)

Thanks for the reviews and fanarts! YOU GUYS ARE WICKED COOL. EVEN GILBERT AGREES. (Though he refuses the awesome part because he's just so STUBBORN)


	9. The Story Has Only Begun

**Disclaimer of this Chapter : **Some swears, but this chapter kinda lightens up on them.

**Ownership : **I saw some of those coin figures... and I want them. But I STILL DOWN OWN HETALIA. I never will. Baww.

**Important Note : **ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down a nation in question. This is based off of characterizations, and not the countries involved. Thanks very much.

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Got more fanart! Wow!

From Chapter 1 :  
edwardismybf(dot)deviantart(dot)com / art / Fever-163691015

This person is awesome. I really would love it if any you guys had DeviantART accounts could go and give awesome comments. Please. Thanks!

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**Chapter Nine Summary **: Feeling better? It is rather sudden. Phone calls from bosses too. But… something feels wrong. Perhaps that was just their imagination….Yeah…

**- Chapter 9 - The Story Has Only Begun - **

Three tired nations sat around a table in a small coffee shop. All of them were tired, exhausted, hungry, and frankly, they all wanted to go home. It was the morning, the rain had all but stopped, and they were all sitting in at the only place that seemed to be willing to sell breakfast at that hour. It was five o'clock in the morning. Not an entirely unholy hour of the morning, but they had expected at least one place to be open.

America sat there, his head in one of his hands, his elbow on the table, looking as if his consciousness was going to fail him any moment, and his head made threatening dips as his eyes fluttered shut. He always caught himself though, sucking in a breath and sitting up straighter, forcing his eyes open blankly before repeating that cycle again.

France looked more awake, but seemed a little more ragged than America was. His hands were around a French Vanilla coffee, taking in its warmth rather than drinking it. Frankly, he did not notice that America had ordered him that flavour in the pure assumption it was the only flavour France would have liked. At any rate, he looked tired, but he wasn't fighting the world of sleep as harshly as Alfred was.

England was sitting back, his eyes looking calm and he was politely holding a saucer in one hand and the handle of a teacup in another. He took a few sips from his Earl Grey, and looked at the other two sleepy nations that had joined him at the table.

The fourth nation that was 'with them' was at the other side of the establishment entirely, thoroughly ignoring them all and was quietly reading a newspaper that he had located on the seat beside him. Arthur noted that the ill mood surrounding the man was gone, but he was still being rather unapproachable. Not that... not that he _wanted_ to approach the man. It was just an observation.

He snuffed air from his nose and looked between the other two, deciding to forgo paying much attention to Ivan.

"You both look like bloody messes," he said finally, to break the stifling silence that already had enveloped them for quite some time. "Did either you get _any_ sleep?"

Not like _he _could talk. He strangely could not sleep at _all_; and the only sleep he managed to grab was few and far between, and in hour-long shots at _best_. Maybe it was just because he could not sleep in a medical clinic all that well. Perhaps both France and America were the same…?

It appeared that Russia slept well enough. (From what he could tell when he glanced back in his direction.)

America blinked suddenly, sitting up straight and his hands went to the table. "Bwah? Huh?"

England looked at the man flatly. Clearly, Alfred had lost the battle against sleep and only just came back to the world of the wakeful. "My goodness," was the only thing he could offer the man.

France spoke, his accent was still there, oddly enough; Arthur assumed that the man's accent died down whenever he was relieved, but it was still hanging in place strangely enough, "I... I did not sleep perfectly L'Angleterre," he admitted with a heavy yawn, and he brought the swill that America liked to call a drink to his lips and took a light sip, "So I am still tired, non?"

"I see," England said, fighting back a yawn himself when Francis had. Alfred was already going full-board with his own yawn, stretching his hands behind his back and giving a few cracks here and there to his shoulder, neck and fingers.

"Don't _do_ that Alfred. You're going to wreck your joints," Arthur scolded out of habit more than meaning.

Alfred smacked his lips took a long draught of coffee then set it down on the table. He fiddled with the spoon that was in the cup and spoke then, sounding a little more awake than what he was displaying a few minutes prior, "Man, what a fucking storm last night."

England twitched at the use of a swear being used so _early_ in the morning, "Quite the storm."

"I mean, we walked through that!" America followed up with a gesture. "It was, like, fucking pounding down with viciousness. And we went _through_ that. I mean, I knew it was terrible, and it was, like, dangerous to drive on the roads and shit, but we decided to walk through that, and we did."

"We certainly did."

"The strange part is that I completely didn't notice it when I was walkin' out there, ya know? I think maybe it's 'cause I was focused on other things. But man, thinkin' back on that, we were being blown left right and centre. It was fuckin' crazy," Alfred concluded.

"Mmn hmn."

France gestured elegantly despite his exhaustion. "We 'ad more important things to focus on, non?" he said in his usual manner. "But yes, it is rather amazing we did not get taken with the wind. 'owever, I do not want to do that again."

"Unless it's necessary," Arthur decided to conclude for him.

"Mn."

Another silence fell between them. Alfred had resettled his head in his hand, and his moment of wakefulness and exuberance seemed to be at an end and he was back to fighting against the longing call of sleep. Francis was sipping at his coffee with more conviction now, and had actually started _eating _his breakfast rather than letting it sit and go cold on his plate. And he did so without commenting on it's culinary terribleness, even.

Arthur went back to sipping at his tea. Just why were they all so tired? Why _couldn't_ they get the sleep that they wanted? It was rather odd. The beds had been comfortable enough. '_Well_,' he mentally corrected, '_mattresses on the floor. But that doesn't make them any less useful for sleep.' _

He remembered distinctly, that in the night, as he made his attempts to fall asleep, despite the relief that Matthew seemed to okay now, despite that he was 'diagnosed' and being treated, he still had a swell of anxiety that settled in the base of his chest uncomfortably. That feeling of pure anxiousness, but no real clear thought on what he was anxious _about._ It was that state of being that kept him awake. He had been just tossing and turning and unable to get a grip on reality or the world of sleep.

He glanced between France and America. Perhaps that's what kept them awake too.

It was such an odd thing. Something he hoped would be cured when this was all over with and he was back in his _own_ bed, in comfortable sleepwear and a good cup of tea.

He wanted to sigh at the pleasant thought, but was distracted when a cellphone's ring blared out.

Blared wouldn't be a good word for it. It was set on vibrate, and the ring tone was very quiet and un-intrusive. But seeing as they pretty much were the only people in the entire place (aside from the employees, and the tall dark figure in the corner) the ring was very noticeable now. It was some un-placeable tune that he knew he should know but couldn't for the life of him remember.

America jumped, as the ringing and buzzing was coming from _him_. Odd. Didn't Alfred have a very loud and obnoxious ringtone? One that generally was over pompous, overbearing and egotistical? Not something so tiny, modest and plain?

Alfred fumbled in his coat's pockets and fished out the red-and-white device and held it to his ear. "Y'ello?"

There was a pause, England found himself, along with Francis, sitting up a little in curiosity and listening to the conversation.

"Nope," Alfred said. "... Wait! No, this isn't him, but I'm his brother."

England's eyebrows furrowed. His brother? What was he talking about...?

"Yeah. I'm America. Yep. Nice to talk to you too, sir! Yep. I saw you at the Olympics. I was the guy that shook your hand. Well, I'm sure a lotta people shook your hand, but surely you remember when you had your hand shook by a _hero_ of all things."

... Who was Alfred talking to?

"Yessir. Ah. Well. Uh huh... Yep. Oh. No worries. We have him."

Have him? Have _who_?

"Yep. You didn't know he was out? Well he can be rather un-intrusive, he probably didn't want to bother you... Ah well. We have him. He got a little... sick. At the meeting. Yeah. Oh! He's gunna be fine. We took him to a clinic. Yep."

That's when it all clicked and England wanted to face-palm at his own stupidity. Oh ye gods. America was talking to Matthew's Prime Minister, or some government official. Of course. How could he have been so daft? Clearly it was far too early in the morning. He recalled vaguely that America had snatched Canada's cellphone, just in case someone had wanted to get in contact with him.

A good thing too, it seemed.

"Uh huh. I'll tell 'im. Ah, but right now? I don't think Matthew'd be up to doing paperwork for a while. So... you probably gotta do some o' that shit yourself."

England now wanted to face-palm at America's utter disrespect and frank words towards one of the leaders of the world. What an _idiot_.

America paused, his face screwing up with confusion and incredulousness. He blinked, pulling the phone away for a second, staring at it, before settling it back on his ear.

_This_ manoeuvre surprised the Englishman and he tilted his head. "Alfred?"

America gestured at Arthur to not speak and he himself said in the phone, evenly. "You know. Matthew. Mattie. Uh. Canada. Your country."

There was another long pause and America mouthed the words, _what the fuck?_

England's eyebrows shot up. But he said nothing.

America gave a nervous laugh. "Haha. Yeah. Probably usta' callin' him Canada or something. Yeah. Yeah. Okay. I'll tell 'im. Kay. Bye." He closed the phone and slammed it on the table with some amount of upset.

"... What happened?" Arthur asked, his eyebrows still firmly up; Francis clearly wanted answers as well.

By the half of the conversation they heard, it was fairly obvious what had happened. It was just that it was rather _unbelievable_ and they wanted confirmation from the man himself. Did they imagine that or did that really just happen...?

"That was Canada's boss," Alfred supplied, his voice upset, but calm enough. "He wanted to know where Mattie was and was wondering when he was coming back because he had gotten a lot of paperwork for him to do."

"That's understandable. I noticed I had a message from my government this morning, as well as Francis," Arthur supplied, gesturing to the other man.

Alfred nodded, "Yeah, me too. My government sent me a few messages asking where I was…" he trailed off for a moment, realising he was derailing from what he really wanted to talk about. "But _anyway, _as I was talkin' to the guy, tellin' him that Matthew probably couldn't do the work… and then he just _paused_. There was this dumbass silence for a few seconds and then he asked me _who I was talking about_."

France looked surprised, now that their suspicions had been indeed deemed as correct; England was shocked as well.

"But he was bloody well _phoning_ about him." Arthur exclaimed, "How could he _not_ know who you were talking about?"

"When I told him who Matthew was, there, like, was this other stupid-ass silence as he thought it over, then he told me that he was not 'privy' to Canada's 'human name'. He told me he was accustomed to calling him Canada, or some shit like that. Said it was impolite to call his country his equal or something equally retarded."

Arthur's eyebrows furrowed. "Well," he relented, "It makes _some_ sense, I suppose; especially so if you're just not used to calling him by that name. I'm sure he knows Matthew's given name, as opposed to his country name, but if you're used to hearing just 'Canada' all of the time, to have 'Matthew' spring up in a conversation would be quite confusing," he casually defended, though not completely confident himself.

The thought that being the case instead of the fact that Canada's own boss forgot him was _much_ more comforting, as well as much more understandable.

"... Oui," France slowly agreed. "I 'ad a leader that did not know my name, 'e only called me France."

"Dude. Your name and your country name are nearly identical," Alfred said flatly. "And all _my_ leaders called me by _my_ human name! Well, save for the first couple. Nice guys... kinda serious though."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "That's because you try to make best-friends with everyone in your government."

Alfred pouted, picking up his breakfast sandwich. "There's nothing wrong with that at all."

England sighed. "Right well…" He glanced at the phone on the table and let a woosh of air escape him in a half-sigh. "Let's leave it at that then. Let's not bother ourselves with that instance, I'm sure that it was something just as simple as he said it was." He added, "No point in getting worked up over a non-existent issue."

France nodded, taking a drought of the terrible coffee.

"… Right." Alfred said around a mouthful of food.

"And let's not forget to tell Matthew that he had a phone call." He paused. "When he's up and awake, of course."

America nodded, swallowing the food thickly. "Right."

And so their conversation died right then and there. They all, one by one, fell back into a quiet lull of eating, drinking, or fighting off the insistent tug of sleep that wanted to reclaim them.

The only one that remained as he was, was Russia, still sitting at the back of the café, his neck warm and snug, and pretending to read the newspaper as he listened to the conversation of the trio of idiot blondes.

So amusing.

. . .

The door of the clinic was unlocked and the three nations were let back in, and it was locked behind them. Alfred let loose another yawn, but he felt much better after being fed and watered. Or rather, coffee'd. He felt a _lot_ better actually, despite the mostly-sleepless night he just had. The only thing that would make it any better was if the food he ate just then was as good as the food that he ate the morning previous with Matthew.

He froze for a second, mid-yawn. "Aw... _shit_."

Francis turned, as did Arthur.

America slapped his hand to his face and it slid down it in frustration and self-guilt. "Holy fuck the whole reason we went out for breakfast in the first place was to get something for Matthew. Holy fuck we are really retarded."

It was France and England's turns to turn a shade or two paler and they exchanged glances with one-another and then both looked thoroughly surprised and appalled at themselves. How on earth did they manage to forget that...?

"Well fucksticks. Fucking... Fuck. Gah. What kinda brother am I? Canada's probably _starving_. He held nothin' in all yesterday and he didn't get supper. I know I'd be ravenous!" He threw his arms in the air.

"... It's okay," came a quiet voice from behind them. "I... I don't need anything. I'm not that hungry, actually. I just had a glass of water that the doctor was nice enough to give me."

Alfred blinked and turned around sharply. He, and his parents, were met with the sight of Canada the mouth of the hallway, leaning slightly against the wall to maintain his proper balance, decked out in pastel pajamas. He looked tired, exhausted, pale, drawn... but he was _standing_. So for the moment America could ignore the dark circles around his eyes or the ratty appearance of him in general.

"Mattie!" He said with surprise and he turned, fully stepping to Matthew's side. "Hey! You shouldn't be up."

Canada gave them a weak smile. France came up on his right and he guided the Canadian gently to a chair to at least _sit_ before he was sent packing back to the clinical room from whence he originally lay.

"Mon petite. L'Amerique is right, you should be in bed, non? Not up and about. Rest is what you need."

Canada regarded them all, and smiled softly, moving some of his matted hair away from his face. "It's okay. I actually... I feel a _lot_ better. When you all had left, I wasn't feeling too different from when I woke up. However, suddenly, not _that_ long ago... I started to feel much much better. It's really odd. But I'm not complaining."

Matthew noticed the surprise that littered his family's expressions and he gave a soft laugh. "Well, I feel _slightly_ off again. I'm tired. But I do feel a lot better than how I was feeling before. It's really a big difference," he gestured in earnest.

Again, he watched their expressions, wondering what was going through their heads. Had he worried them that much? Had he been that much of a trouble? He had a lot of trouble trying to remember anything after being put into one of the beds at the conference hall, and beyond those hazy memories he couldn't remember being taken to the clinic...

"O... Oh... I'm sorry..." Canada said all the sudden, putting his hands up. "Was I that much of a problem for you? I didn't mean to... I'm sorry I won't do that again, I swear. I really _do_ feel a lot better, I promise."

This was ignored and England had put a hand on his forehead. Matthew blinked up at him in bewilderment, but stayed still.

Arthur withdrew and suddenly let loose a great heave of relief. "Oh thank_ god_," England said. "Oh thank goodness. Your fever is gone. Well, not to say it's _completely_ gone, but the raging fire that had been there before is gone!" He smiled widely. "Oh good Matthew. That's excellent."

Canada, a little surprised, was then attacked in the same manner by Alfred and France. France looked just as relieved as England when he withdrew his hand, and America let out a whoot of happiness.

"Yes! Ah geeze Mattie. You were like a bajillion and a half degrees," he commented. He was assaulting his head with a hand and ruffling his hair viciously because he just felt that the situation called for that type of action. "And I thought you were gunna melt! I mean, it's bad you still got a fever, but that shit is like, peanuts to what you had before. You got this dinky little baby fever now!" America's fingers and arms adjusted to demonstrate the difference.

Apparently he had two arm lengths of a fever before, but now had barely a centimeter between Alfred's forefinger and thumb of a fever now.

Canada laughed and tried to smooth back his assaulted hair. "It... It's good to hear that then," he stated as he tamed his poor attacked head.

America grinned toothily; exuberant that his brother seemed to so _quickly_ get over whatever it was that had attacked him. Clearly his brother was just as wicked-cool as he was, and wasn't going to let some fucking illness drag him down for long.

"Oh!" America took out Matthew's cellphone. "I got a call a little while ago on this thing." He handed it to Canada. "Love the ring tone. Your anthem, _eh_?" he teased.

England perked. Ah. So that's what it was... He had been mulling that over ever since America had taken the call. He _knew_ he recognized it.

"Haha, yep." Canada flipped it open, he was surprised. He hardly ever got phone calls on his cellphone. His phone was so unused and uncalled that he barely wracked up any minutes on it. He actually hadn't received a phone call on it for nearly over a week.

He, surprised, clicked through the call log and saw that it was indeed his Prime Minister that had phoned him. He felt a swell of something hit his chest and he smiled happily at the screen. He got a _phone call_ from his Prime Minister!

His family may not have understood why he was so happy by that revelation, but if he were to be honest with them, they would have found out that often he was overlooked by his government. It wouldn't be a rare thing for them to forget to contact him about something. But to see that they had remembered him, called, and were concerned enough to make sure he was okay? (well, that's what he assumed the phone call was for) This made him entirely happy.

America watched as some colour return to Canada's cheeks and the paleness was ebbing away slightly. It wasn't much, but it was enough that Alfred noticed the change immediately upon the mention that Canada's Prime Minister had specifically phoned for him.

"Hey! Matt! You're startin' to look better! Why don't you phone them back, then maybe I can go out after and snatch ya some food." He thumbed to the door, "Then you can take a nap!"

Canada smiled, nodded and he hit the redial button and placed the phone against his ear. Maybe this wasn't all so bad. He was thankful that he had been contacted.

There was a special department of the government that delt directly with him, and it wasn't particularly publicly known. As such, he had a way to get in contact directly with that portion of the government, without having to jump through hoops in trying to prove that it was him. It was exceptionally handy, and there was always someone there he could deal with.

_"Hello?_"

"Ah. Hello. This is Matthew Williams speaking. I'm phoning back in regards to a phone call that was placed a little while ago," he stated, formally. "I was wondering if there was anything that was needed of me at the time."

_"... I'm sorry sir, but who? How did you get this number?_"

"... Ah... Heh. This is Canada," he said quietly. "Matthew Williams. I'm one of the few that has the number, eh? I got a phone call from the Prime Minister, through this department, a little while ago."

_"The Prime Minister is in a meeting right now. But may you please repeat your name for me? Perhaps he can phone you back at a later ti-_"

"No no no. This is _Matthew Williams_. Canada. I'm your country avatar, eh?" Canada said, slightly sterner, and some note of frustration.

He was being watched by England, France and America, though at the moment he was unaware of this, and thus also unaware of the shocked expressions they were giving him.

_"I'm sorry but I don't think..._"

"Canada. I am phoning the right department aren't I? I am Matthew Williams. I'm Canada. I'm the reason that department exists in the first place. Look, are you new? I'm terribly sorry, but I am who I say I am, and my number should be validating through your computer system as legitimate."

_"It is sir, but..._"

"But? Please put me through to someone who can tell me why the Prime Minister phoned. It's important. Alright?" He forced himself to attach a softer and kinder tone. No reason to take out his frustration on the woman.

_"I'm sorry... I can't put you through to anyone... Mr. Williams. We will phone you back later. Have a nice day._"

"... Hold on one mi-"

_Click._

Canada blinked, and looked at his phone. "They_ hung up _on me."

America then stated, loudly, what they were all thinking. "What the _fuck_ was that about?" His hands were gripping the back of Canada's chair. "I mean... What the fuck? What the _fuck_? I've never had that shitty of a time in trying to contact _my_ government. Have you?" He asked England.

Arthur shook his head quickly. Never. There had never been any doubt by _anyone_ whenever he phoned; even if he _didn't_ phone on a validated line. Never. He supposed it was because he was a country and not a human. But _that _was just...

Canada smiled a little. "D-... don't worry about it." He assured, putting up his hand. "I... It's okay. That happens sometimes when we-we get a new p-person in." His voice was sounding tired again. "She just might not b-be familiar with the concept so... She's being safe. That's g-good, eh?"

France licked his lips in troubled thought, watching his dear son speaking, then he bent over, and placed the back of his hand back on Canada's forehead. After a long moment, he withdrew. "... Mon petite... Your fever is raising."

America stopped his mental-rant against the 'morons using phones' and he looked down at Matthew. The colour that had been returning to Canada's cheeks was gone, and he was back to a slightly grey pallor of before. It was, however, still tens of times better than how he looked the night previous, but it didn't mean the sudden slight decline any less troubling.

Perhaps the stress…?

"... You kinda look a little off again Matt." He observed verbally. "Hey... How about this? Why don't you get up, get back to bed, and you can phone them back. Surely she'll do her double-checking and shit like that then phone you back."

"... Okay."

Arthur stepped forward and he helped Matthew out of his chair. "I'll take you there and tuck you in, mn?" He gave his son a best a comforting smile as he could muster.

Canada laughed a little and returned the smile in earnest. "Okay. Thank you."

"That's a good lad," and he lead Canada out of the room, hand against his back.

America and France watched Matthew leave, but the unsettling air of what they just heard was still hanging between them, no doubt Arthur could feel it too. They certainly _hoped_ all that was only because the woman that had answered was new and unsure. If not -

Alfred shook his head. Ah. It was fine. The Prime Minister called himself, after all, so it was just fine…

… Yep …

. . .

"Alright, are you sure we have everything?" England asked the doctor as he stood by the door. "No other medication he'll need, any other advice, and we have enough bandages for his wrist...?"

The doctor waved it off with a smile. "I gave you everything you're going to need. I'm honestly surprised on how well he is doing compared to how you brought him. But, that being said, make sure to give me a call, or the hospital, or any other medical service if he starts to decline again."

The doctor leaned and looked as Alfred was helping Matthew into the backseat of the car.

"Are you going to be taking him home?" The doctor asked England, giving his attention back to the Englishman.

England was running through a list in his mind to double-check, re-check and triple-check everything to be sure that they were not going to forget _anything_ the Canadian man needed. He broke away from his thoughts.

"Ah. We'll be taking him back to his home. But Alfred lives very close to him, so he shall be staying with him if need be. I highly doubt Francis and I will be leaving him tonight either." It was better to be safe, than sorry.

"Excellent." He handed Arthur his card. "I know you already have one of these. But, seeing as how you have checked if you had the anti-bacterial medication for the fifth time now... I feel you'd probably want this anyway." He added with a chuckle, "To be sure."

Arthur looked at the man and felt his face flush with slight embarrassment. "Yes... Well..."

Was he really being that over-cautious…?

_HONKKKKKKKKK._

A very loud honking sound invaded the airspace of their conversation. "Oi! Artie! Hurry up! It's time to _go_, and aren't you the one driving? We don't have all day! I'm sure that Mattie's bear is waiting for him to come back and we're all _fucking starving_ too! Hurry your ass on up!"

Arthur grit his teeth. _Sometimes_ his son could be absolutely annoying. He rubbed at his temples for a moment and grit out an apology. "I am so sorry for him. Thankfully he's been _behaving_ himself."

The doctor tilted his head. "I'd ask if he was your son, but you both look around the same age. Brother maybe...?"

Arthur paused. Ah. Right. The doctor had no idea that they were physical personifications of countries. Or, if the man had any suspicions of them being as such, he hadn't shown it yet. Which _was_ odd. Usually citizens had a heavy inclination to recognize their country right off the bat. So, if the man hadn't picked up on it, it meant that the man wasn't French, Russian, English, American or Canadian.

The oddness increased when England was sure that the accent the man had was something found on the east coast of North America. So he truly _was_ a little baffled.

He left those thoughts. "Ah. Well. He's not my brother. But it doesn't matter. Certainly feels like I'm looking after a five year old at tim-"

_HONKKKKKKKK. HONK. HONK. HONKKKKKK._

"-... Case and point," he growled.

When he got there he was going to beat Alfred with his _shoe_ damnit. What kind of bloody respect was that? How disgusting! Honking the bloody horn in front of the doctor's clinic without a care in the world. Of all the _nerve_.

The doctor didn't seem to mind, and he just laughed.

_'Such a kind fellow,_' England reasoned, _'A very nice man. I'm jealous of whoever has the honor of being his country_.'

"Well, you better hurry up, sir," The man said politely and he gestured to the door. "Before he wears the -"

"Artttiiiieeeeeeeeee." _HONK. HONK. HONK. HONKKKKKKKKK._

"Oh bloody _hell!"_

Arthur jerked to face Alfred sharply, who was leaning through the window to get his hand on the blasted horn. England had _enough_ of America. Damn it all! If he wanted to stay back and double-check things, then damn it all he was _going to do just that_. No amount of his son's idiotic antics were going to slow this down! It was important!

"Excuse me for a moment," England slightly-too-sweet voice said.

"Not at all." The man gestured, a knowing smirk twisting his lips.

"Thank you," he replied with equal pleasantry and he fully turned to face Alfred.

Deftly, he picked up a sizeable rock from just outside the door and hucked it straight towards America. If his talents in rounders had anything to say about it: His aim was very _very_ accurate.

Alfred was still blaring away, trying to get England's attention and not caring he was interrupting. "Come on Iggy! Hurry upppp!" _HONK. HONK. HONKKKKKKK. _"Come -... HOLY SHIT!"

America ducked when a rock came careening towards his skull, and he only just managed to miss being beaked on the head with the hard rocky object. Stunned, he stared at offending object on the ground a few yards behind him then he looked at England, dumbfounded.

"Wha... Wha... _Wha?_" He gestured to the rock, then to England and said, ever-so-intelligently, "_Guh!_"

"Wait a bloody moment will you!" England snapped. "I am talking to the doctor, and _it is important_. So sit you behind in the car, stay with Matthew and _shut the bloody hell up because I'm going to be there in a moment_."

Alfred, shocked, clamped his mouth shut, and robotically nodded and sat down in the back seat beside Matthew. Who, if England could guess by what he saw through the slightly-tinted windows, was roaring with laugher along with France. That was worth the annoyance right there.

"Ah right." He turned back to the polite doctor with a victory smirk, completely satisfied. "As we were saying?"

"Yes."

"I just want to be sure that his wrist won't be any trouble, or make anything worse."

"I've already told you that it isn't majorly broken, and that from what I could tell with the equipment we have, it's already set in place. Just little fractures. Just do as I told you before: Make sure he doesn't move it, and keep it slung and out of the way. In the next few weeks or so, it should be as good as new. Enough so that he'd never notice that he even broke it in the first place."

England smiled, for the blissful silence coming from the car, as well as for the reassuring news from the doctor. "Excellent, excellent."

Arthur checked through the bag in his hand one more time, asked the doctor for an extra sling if he had one to spare, and he then gestured. "I'd best be off. Any longer and Alfred will try to honk the horn again. This time, I won't deliberately try to miss his head."

A chuckle was given in response, but before he could turn, "Where's your other friend? The extremely tall man from before? I haven't seen him since all four of you left for breakfast this morning."

Arthur's smile faltered. Ah. Friend? Did they really look like friends? Certainly acquaintances. But not so much a _friend_. And if they were friends, they were no more than idle 'say hello in the hallway' sort. "Ivan?"

"Yes. Are you going to leave without him?"

Arthur clicked his tongue. "Well, the man said he was finished his business here. He told us he was returning to the... Well, he was returning to our 'work place'. And that was that. Really, he didn't tell us much more than that. No doubt he's almost there by now. There are a few buses around, right? And now that the rain is over with, it should be much faster to get there..."

"Alright. If he comes back here, I'll be sure to tell you that he went to..."

"... Matthew. Matthew William's home. If he wants to know. Though I highly doubt he doesn't. He told us to just leave."

"Right. Alright then. Good luck Mr. Kirkland. You have my number."

"Yes, yes. Indeed I do."

Arthur then turned and gave a light wave to the man before walking down the steps and to the sidewalk where the retrieved car waited, parked. It was a good thing he had sent America out to fetch it, he didn't exactly want to walk back to it, and he highly suspected that Matthew really wasn't up to it.

He climbed into the front seat of the car. Inside, Canada and France were still looking highly amused, and America was still pouting nothing like the adult he claimed to be. It amused Arthur more than anything else, and he felt a swell of triumph that he managed to 'conquer' America for at least some short time.

"Alright. _Now_ we can go. That wasn't so terrible, now was it Alfred?" England teased from the front seat, and he turned the key to start the car.

Alfred just gave a tight, 'harrumph', and crossed his arms, looking out the passenger's window with cheeks slightly puffed in defiance.

England shook his head, and before he pulled away from the sidewalk, he turned in his seat and looked at Matthew (who was situated behind Francis in the car).

"How are you feeling? Are you sure you want to leave? It's no trouble for you to stay here longer, you know. You know what's best for your body, so be sure you're not making any decisions for _our_ sake, we don't factor into this."

Canada was looking pale again, like before, but it was still very pleasing to see that he was sitting up, and was so drastically different in wakefulness and coherency than he had been the night before. The night before? Terrifying. Arthur wasn't sure if he wanted to go through that again. It was... It was definitely something he didn't want to handle again.

Matthew gave a weary smile, he was leaned back in his seat, "I'm sure. I'll be comfortable at home, eh? Home is the best place to be." He added, considering the looks he was getting from everyone. "I really do feel a lot better. Honest."

America broke out of his pout, and turned to face his brother. With one arm, he reached and tugged Canada closer to him, letting the slightly younger nation to rest his head against his shoulder so he was warmer, and more comfortable.

"Ya sure Mattie?"

"Says the guy that was nearly blasting out my ears while honking the horn," Matthew pointed out with a small laugh.

America snuffed air out of his nose, and considering that this was _Matthew_ and not stupid-head _Arthur_, he let that slide. "Ah ha ha Mattie. Very funny. M'bein' serious. Are you sure that you want to go? You are looking pale again and you are a tiny little warmer..."

"It's just because I've been up and about. When I'm back home, I'll definitely be in bed," Canada reasoned. "And besides... Kuma is waiting for me..."

"Your bear is hardly a reason to decide to go back home. If he needs to be taken care of, one of us can do it."

"Ah... No. It's okay. Really. I mostly want to go home because I just want to go home. I'm not that fond of doctor's..."

"Pppftt!" Alfred said with a light laugh, "Who _does_? I hate doctors. Well, I don't _hate_ them _personally_. I just have issues with going over there for checkups. Especially when they know you're a country. Because then? They check things _more_ thoroughly, and try to see what's different… and it's kinda creepy, actually."

America heard a small laugh from the person leaning against him, but it was quieter and off in the distance. Alfred looked at Canada and he put his hand on his head, ruffled his hair slightly, and said, "Go to sleep Mattie. We'll take you home in no time."

"Okay."

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**Author's Notes :**

I made some assuptions about things. I assume that maybe there's a portion of the government that deals with the personifications. Maybe makes it easier? Also… I don't know much about doctoring, so ignore that stuff if it's incorrect. Just there for the plot, eh! Thanks for being understanding.

Where's Russia? I dunno… (yes I do) he comes and goes…

… I suspect we'll see him again.

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**Chapter Ten Preview :** Going home… a phone call. Something still isn't quite right. Wait. Wait no. Don't jump to conclusions. The story is over… right? … Right?

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Thanks for reading! **Read and Review please**!

I GOT SOME EPIC REVIEWS. I LOVE EVERY ONE OF YOU. I am going to ATTEMPT to respond to reviews this time around. Attempt to. Please don't be upset if I don't. I really do read and get a dorky smile on my face when I do.

Reviews help me know that people like the story. So thanks very much! I appreciate everything!


	10. Even Canadians Love Zombies

**Disclaimer of this Chapter : **Swearing has kinda lightened up. For this chapter, at least. I can't promise about future chapters though.  
**Ownership : ** I own nuffin. Well. I own stuff. Not Hetalia.  
**Important Note : **ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down any nation in question. This is based off of characterisations and not the countries invovled. Thank you very much.

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**Chapter Ten Summary** : Paperwork... Zombies... Soup. Mmn. Soup. Pissed off Russians. Yep! Sounds like a normal day!

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**- Chapter 10 - Even Canadians Love Zombies - **

Kumajirou paced his Canadian home, moving between the bedroom and bathroom and back again in his own lumbering pace. Anyone unfamiliar with the bear would assume that the pacing meant that he was bored, eager to have something interesting to do because his owner was gone. Such was not the case.

No, Kumajirou was experiencing something rare when it concerned his owner, and that was worry. Normally he would not care so much where that guy was, or who he was with, or even _who_ he was, as long as the man was his owner, fed him, and continued to do what he did every day. The minor details did not matter in the long run as long as he remained receiving the same love and affection had had gotten for a very _long_ time.

Perhaps the worry was different because he felt that something was off, something was wrong with that guy, and he could not place a paw on what it was.

The bear plopped himself down in the kitchen and looked at the clock that hung beside the fridge. "Late," he murmured to himself, watching the second hand idly tick past. "Very late," he reiterated and agreed with himself before heaving back up to do the pacing of his house.

A sound invaded the silence; there was a jingle of a clink and rattle of a key being jammed in the front lock, and the sound of the door being opened with a soft 'clunk'. A creak followed, and boots in the entrance way came right afterward.

"Hmn?" Kumajirou tilted his head. "Oh! That guy is back," he came to the conclusion. "I should tell him off," he decided. "He is very late."

With that, he lumbered off to the entrance in no hurry or sense of haste, but with a very slight edge of eagerness.

He was met by someone who was_ not_ 'that guy'. It was that imposter guy that looked just like him. His brother. That weird guy who always wore that stupid jacket with the stupid fluff and had that stupid flippy thing on his head that Kumajirou always wanted to bat at whenever the man came close enough for him to reach.

Kumajirou harrumphed at the man that was working off his boots. "You're not Canada," he said simply, using Matthew's country name because well, let's face it, he did know it some of the time, and he remembered it whenever it was important enough to. Whoever it was referring to...

America blinked, looking down the hall and seeing a very disappointed looking white polar bear. "Oh! Hey little guy!"

Alfred's face spread to a cheesy grin, and once his boots were off he stepped up towards the bear in a quick manner and scooped him up; much to Kumajirou's disappointment.

"How are you doing Koopatroopa?"

America was rewarded with a very haughty and flat look. "Kumajirou."

"Hahaha! Right! Kumajirou!" He put a gloved hand on the bear's head and rubbed between the ears happily. "How are ya doin' little guy? Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat at all?" He stopped. "What do you _eat_ anyway? Kibble...?"

"I am not hungry. I got breakfast myself."

Alfred's eyebrows arched. "You did? What did you get...?"

"Maple syrup. And salmon."

America's nose wrinkled. "Wha? Really? How did you get that stuff? Canned salmon?"

"Yep."

"Woah! You can use a _can opener_! That's, like, epic on a thousand different levels," America commented in amazement, wondering how Canada's bear could get his paws on a can opener, and be dexterous enough to turn it...

"It's electric."

"... Oh ... Well. It's still epic on at least one-hundred levels. I mean, how often do you get to see a _bear_ use a can opener?" Alfred reasoned. "Electric or not."

Kumajirou, still not appreciating the man's presence, being held, or the conversation in question, still looked at him flatly. He chose to give America a cold tone. "Go away."

"W... Waa? Go away? Why?"

"I'm waiting for that guy. Not you. I want the guy that looks like you, but better. Now go away, lemme go." He started to wriggle in America's grip.

"Sorry little guy! I can't let you go just yet. Mattie's coming, you know. Ol' Frog-butt is helping him inside and he's going to go straight up to bed. So I don't think you should bother him."

Kumajirou's ears perked and he looked towards the still-open doorway. "He's coming back? Where has he been? He's late."

"Yeah... He's sick, Koopatroopa."

_"Kumajirou_."

"Hahaha. I know. I just like Koopatroopa better."

The polar bear in America's arms sighed and made the human gesture of rubbing at his head before lowering his paw again. This guy was so annoying. It was around this point that two people came through the door, one being supported by the other; France and Canada.

France didn't bother in taking off his shoes; instead he moved to aim for the hallway straightaway, keeping a deft hold on his dear son. He had something far more important to deal with than a little bit of muck and dirt on a carpet. Not that his shows _were_ that dirty.

Canada spoke, "Papa... our shoes, we should take them off..."

"Non, mon petite. We do not 'ave to take them off, non? They are clean enough. Come, let's get you in bed straight away, then we can take off your shoes," France assured him as he lead him up the stairs.

Kumajirou wiggled more, trying to escape the in-human crasp. "Hey. Stupid. Hey! Guy with stupid glasses!"

America instantly retorted with a major pout, "Texas is _not_ stupid."

"Mmfph. Let me go. I want to see that guy."

"Sorry buddy-boy. But you gotta stay with me. Matt has to get bed rest and _sleep_ right now. So whatever you need from him, you can get from me, okay?" Alfred reassured, or rather, attempted to. It was hard to do reassuring when the one that he was trying to reassure was looking at him so _flatly_.

"I don't need anything."

America sighed. "Well, then I'll just keep holdin' onto ya for a bit then. Sorry Koopa, can't change that part."

"_Kumajirou_."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, don't get your fur in a twist."

At least when his owner forgot his name - or rather, 'forgot' his name - he had the decency of calling him something that _vaguely_ resembled his name. Like, Kumakichi or Kumamomo or Kumataro or Kumarama or something to that degree. Though recently he noticed how that guy seemed to default to 'Kuma' most of the time. Ah... Oh well. He didn't care. At least it wasn't as _stupid_ as 'Koopatroopa'.

America decided then to ignore the bear that had stopped wriggling and resigned to his fate of having to be carried by Alfred. He puffed out his cheeks in a few seconds of mild unknown annoyance then turned to the living room.

It had been a while since he visited his brother's. Usually when he visited he took Canada out somewhere, or Canada generally visited _him_. He always wondered why Matthew tended to refuse for America to 'trouble himself' by coming 'all the way here'. He had begun to assume Matthew's place was a pig-sty.

Looking around? Spick and span. The only cleaner house he'd fine would possibly be Germany's.

Eh... His brother was so modest. Where the _hell_ did he get that from?

He saw how the living room was carefully laid out and minimalistic, a simple three-cushioned couch sat against the wall, surrounded on either side by a simple bookshelf. Only a couple pillows adorned the couch to make it more than just plain. Canada had a quaint little entertainment center opposite it, all electronic outdated by at least five or so years, nothing new or brand new. Some looked like they came from thrift-stores or a pawn shop...

There was a wood and glass coffee table that had an in/out box that had a few sheets of paper resting in the 'out' portion, and a stack of paper sitting behind it with a small container with a couple pens and a highlighter.

Ah. So this is what Matthew did when he wanted to kick back and relax at the same time as doing paperwork? It was kind of amusing.

All in all, his humble abode seemed... homey. Alfred smirked. He kinda liked it. It suited him.

With that, and no further attention on his brother's decorating abilities, America thumped back onto the couch with a 'oomph' and kicked his feet up on the glass coffee table.

"We just gotta wait a little bit for England to mosey on in here with some stuff for Matthew, then we can make him some lunch," Alfred grinned, turning the bear around so he faced him.

"I can help?"

"Course you can."

. . .

After removing Canada's shoes, France got Matthew partially lying down. He propped his son up with a few well-placed pillows and he straightened the sheets under Matthew's elbows tenderly.

After all that was said and done, Francis sat down on the edge of the bed and put a hand on Matthew's forehead.

"Ah... alors... You still 'ave a fever, non? Though I suppose I cannot argue," he admitted, withdrawing, "It is not as bad as before! And that is very good!"

Canada smiled softly, slight guilt leaked into his expression. "Papa..."

"Oui mon mignon?"

"Papa," Matthew sighed then, his expression dropping. "I am so sorry for this; all of this. I just can't imagine how something like this had started and... I am so sorry that you all got wrapped up in it. I should have stayed home from work yesterday. Rather than trying to come in. If I had... maybe this would all have been avoided?" He huffed out another breath. "Maybe you all wouldn't be so troubled."

France let his son go off with his unnecessary apology, his hands neatly folded in his lap as he listened. When he was sure that Canada was done, he took his son's face tenderly with his two hands.

"Non mon petite. I am thankful that you 'ad come! If not, then what would 'ave 'appened if you were alone? So I am grateful!" He smiled. "As well! I would 'ave been _pained so_ if I could not see my dear petite at the meeting! I would 'ave..." He started saying dramatically, back of his hand on his forehead for further effect, "... felt a great 'ole in my 'eart if you were not there."

Canada snorted. "Papa..."

"Non!" He took his son's shoulder. "It is true! I can feel it now! A great void... Oh... _pourquoi moi_! It is terrible!"

A small laugh erupted from his tired and pale son, earning a look of relief from his melodramatic parent. France put a hand on the top of his son's head and ruffed up the hair softly.

"Mon petite. Do not apologize any more for any of this," he instructed paternally. "Apologies are not necessary, Mathieu." He brushed back Canada hair then started to ease him down.

"Papa but I ..."

"Ah ah." He waggled a finger. "No buts. Shh. Rest for a while, yes? You need it; you are still quite sick," France instructed, guiding Matthew to a proper laying position and he tucked him in comfortably, patting the sheets with his hand. "You get some rest, and your Papa," he said with a wide smile, "Will stay here with you."

Canada's face broke out into a wide smile. He turned on his side and tried to nestle in the more-familiar fabrics of his own bed, but facing his parent.

"Okay," he said simply, retaining that smile for a moment or so more before he closed his eyes to let himself sleep.

France watched him for a moment, and when he was sure that his son had dropped off again (he must have been exhausted to fall asleep so quickly), he reached out and brushed at his beautiful French-inspired hair.

"Do not worry. You will get better, non?"

. . .

America was still on the couch, but he no longer held Kumajirou as he convinced him to stay downstairs to leave Canada alone while France got him settled down to sleep. Part of the convincing may have been attributed to the fact that he had bribed the bear of the northern nation with this box of cookies he found in the cupboard.

He had one in his mouth at the moment; it was dangling there as he was really being a bit of a snoop.

He had grown bored as time had passed, and resisting his own urges to run upstairs and check on his brother to be sure that he didn't relapse, he was idly looking around the living room once again. He was coming to the self-decided decision that maybe Matthew wouldn't mind if he played one of his video games. So he was sitting in front of a cupboard of the entertainment center, shuffling through Canada's videogames.

"Huh... He doesn't have that many video games."

He pulled out one of the few cases, and gaped "Woah! This is a really hard-core zombie game. Why does he have this...?" He flipped it over and saw a name was scrawled in thick black marker. "... Ah. It's Prussia's. I guess he lent it to him. Hah. Good luck getting Mattie to play this. I bet Matt's had this in here for _months_."

He stood, kicking the cupboard closed with his foot, and he pulled out the appropriate console and popped in the game.

"I'll just give him a head start. Mattie won't care..."

The system started and America crunched down on the maple-leaf shaped cookie that tasted _heavily_ of maple. It was really delicious too. Really sweet. Alfred contentedly chewed on it when the save menu came up and he stared in complete _shock_.

"Holy shit! Matthew _beat_ this game?" He looked at the save file that was, yes, listed under Canada's name. "I... My brain is breaking trying to imagine my brother playing this game and not hiding behind the couch. This is... very... contradictory to his nature..."

He laughed then, putting down the controller and letting the save screen remain on the TV as he plopped himself on the couch to grab another cookie.

"Hahaha! Maybe while Mattie is getting better we can have fun and play this 2-player. Oh! Or online! Hell yeah!"

In his little fit of excitement of playing zombie first-person shooters with his brother, he accidently knocked over the box of maple-cookies and spilt them all over inside Canada's out-box.

"Ah! Shit!"

He stood up, panicking.

"Shit shit shit! Mattie's gunna kill me!" America frantically began to try to sweep the cookies and cookie dust off of the papers in the out-box and back into the container that they originally came from.

"Damnit Alfred," he scolded himself.

Once he had gotten most of the crumbs and cookie out that he could with just sweeping with his hand, he picked up the papers and began to shake them off.

And because the papers were facing him now, and not turned face-down he accidently caught a glimpse of what was on them. Really, countries had no right looking into other country's paperwork. Since it could arise many troubles from a mere glimpse and it was generally a good idea to ignore any such papers when in another's household.

But what Alfred saw was rather... glaring.

He had assumed that the small stacks of papers were just a couple things that Matthew had received the day before but... This was just...

He flipped through them, being careful to just read the top dates.

They were all single sheets. All of them dated either a week or a _month_ from one-another. And they were all the kind of paperwork the government gave to their respective country avatars to sign out of... respect? Rather, it was tradition, and they really didn't have much of a point other than as a sort of recognition of the avatar's hard work and sort of showed some kind of respect. A sort of recognition of the representitive's exsistance?

"What the hell...?" He looked through them again. "... Maybe this is just Mattie's... uh... pile of stuff he does in front of the TV..."

Which was weird. This stuff could just be signed off immediately. So he really didn't need to set up a place to _do_ this kind of paperwork. It just needed to be signed off and it was picked up later when the real paperwork came.

"This is..."

He flipped through them again. "From four months ago."

He looked back at the small set up. It was painfully obvious it was organized that way so Matthew could sit back and do hours of paperwork if need be. But this was all he had?

He was about to go off on a mental tangent about the fact that Matthew _still_ had them which meant tha-

Oh no no. He scolded himself and put the papers back in their tray. No. This wasn't his business. He was coming to stupid conclusions. There was nothing indicating by those papers just being there that something was _wrong_. No.

He fwumped back on the couch and decided to ignore the papers all together. It was far more rational to leave them alone and not to think of them any further lest he come to stupid ideas concerning Canada that would start to approach conspiracy theories. There was no room or need for that sort of crazy talk; or thoughts, really.

He was sure it could all be simply explained.

Alfred grabbed another cookie from the box, not caring as-so-much where it had been and he picked up the controller to start playing the zombie game.

It would be a good distraction from his thoughts, and keep him from going on wild tangents about his brother due to recent events.

As he started to play, and really, he had only _just_ made himself a save file and started to beat down on the first zombies that had appeared in the game (as an ambush, no less), the front door to Canada's home had opened, and let through an Englishman with a paper bag of groceries in his arms.

England kicked off his shoes, and shoved them off to the side, huffing some breaths; he walked into the hallway from the entrance and looked at Alfred with a flat expression.

"Alfred. What the bloody hell are you doing? Get up. Don't laze around playing _video games_ of all things. Come and help me!"

America rolled his eyes, paused the game and stood. "Yeah yeah..."

England strode past him and to the quaint kitchen and piled the things on the counter. "Now," he started, rolling up his sleeves as he started to rifle through the bags. "I fetched a few things, I had trouble finding some of the things I'm used to, but I did get a few supplies that I'd think would be helpful."

America was standing beside him, arms crossed and his eyebrow raised as he watched his father dig out a rather copious amount of things. "... That's quite a lot of stuff you got there."

"Well... _yes._ The doctor informed me that he's not going to get instantly better. So we need some supplies to last him. It'd be a shame if someone had to go out everyday..."

"Mattie has stuff in his cupboards and fridge ya-know..."

"_Yes_, but not 'stuff' that he needs at the moment," Arthur shook his head. "At least, he probably doesn't have enough of it."

He fished out a few containers of what seemed to be broth; chicken, beef and vegetable flavour. He also fetched out some 'extra-potent' multivitamins that were apparently easy to swallow, if the bottle said anything about it.

Alfred regarded one of the containers of broth, reading the ingredients while England dug out more.

"I also bought some tea. I was surprised to find a store with loose-leaf so I saw fit to fetch some for him. I know he drinks from teabags, so this'll inherently be better for him anyway." He put them on the counter.

"Is this necessary?' He asked, holding one of the bags in his hand.

"Of _course_ it's necessary! Tea is the key to healthy living. Why do you think I'm so healthy all of the time?"

Alfred took the time to look at him flatly. "Uh huh. So convincing coming from you."

Arthur huffed and he snatched the bags out of his hand. "Enough from you. You don't have to drink it. I'll be brewing Matthew some green tea when he wakes up." He paused, "He _is_ asleep, isn't he?"

"Yeah. France took him upstairs right after we got here, and they haven't come down, so I can only presume..."

If Francis was also still upstairs, that meant that nothing was terribly wrong with Canada. France was a very good alarm for them. He knew the moment _anything_ seemed wrong with Matthew, he'd shriek and come running down stairs. At least the worry that Canada would be relapsing without their knowledge was gone.

England dug a few more things out of the bag, some fruit, vegetables and a few tinned items. "There..." He folded the paper bag for use later. "... That's all for now."

Deciding then that he should start on getting something prepared for Matthew to eat - seeing as he had thrown up everything he had eaten the day before, and also hadn't eaten anything for dinner or breakfast - he put his hand on one of the broth containers.

Alfred swiftly snatched up. "Hey! I wanna help!" He said quickly, almost desperately. "Can I make this?" He pointed to the broth container. "Because... Mattie is my little bro so I wanna do something for him..."

England regarded him oddly but then relented, waving his hand. "Right right. You do that. I'll make him some tea."

Alfred gave a huge mental-sigh of relief. He had just dodged a major bullet; a major burnt, black and terrible bullet. He didn't want Canada to _die_ or anything. And even if it was just broth that needed to be heated up, he really didn't want to risk it.

Tea however? England could take the worst of any tea bag and somehow make it absolutely delicious. Not... Not that America liked tea or anything... Tea was terrible. But if England wanted to make Canada tea, then by all means, he could definitely make him tea. Better him than anyone else, really.

And with a little bit of insisted help by Kumajirou, the three of them set out to not only make Matthew lunch, but themselves too.

. . .

Francis was sitting on a chair by the side of Canada's bed still. Even though Matthew was asleep, he felt no urge to want to leave the young man's side. Instead, he sat there, legs crossed and hands threaded together, watching the slight rise and fall of Matthew's breaths as he slept.

While he slept, he pondered of all the wonderful things he could do while Matthew was getting better! Of the good father-son times they could share. They could make wonderful family memories and it would be a beautiful and cherished moment! They could spend good _quality_ time together!

It would be beautiful.

As France pondered the possibility of taking Canada to the park at some point, the shifting of sheets drew the doting parent's attention to the occupant in the bed.

Matthew gave a soft sound and his eyes opened. With the back of his hand he rubbed his eyes and he yawned, sucking in a breath as he came back to the world of the wakeful.

"Ah... Did I wake you with my thinking mon petite...?"

A sleepy chuckle. "Unless Papa thinks very loudly..."

France smiled and he reached out and brushed Canada's hair back and re-felt his forehead. Still the same. Still a fever. But at least Matthew seemed well enough.

Canada spoke when he withdrew. "I... Think I heard voices coming from downstairs. I was kinda dozing so I'm not sure."

"Ah, did L'Angleterre and L'Amerique wake mon petite up?" France said in a manner that would normally be reserved for a three-year old.

Matthew did not notice, or he just did not mind. "Oh. No." He gave another heavy yawn and he started to push himself up into a sitting position. "I was just waking up anyway, they just happened to become a bigger incentive, that's all."

Francis smiled softly but spoke. "Oh, mon Mathieu, mon petite moi, why don't you sleep more, no? I think it is best if you get the most rest possible," he advised his ailing son.

Canada laughed. "More? I'd hate to say it Papa, but I've been in and out of sleeping since lunchtime," he paused, then added, "Yesterday."

A flicker of a frown was all that adorned France's features when Matthew said that, but he was back to his melodramatic self soon enough. "Oh! I suppose it is fine for a bit. See, L'Amerique and L'Angleterre are preparing lunch for us all. You should 'ave a 'ot meal, non?" He adjusted one of Canada's pillows. "So stay awake."

Matthew smiled. "Oui Papa."

That only proved to make France's smile widen more. To see Canada back to being more jovial, despite being ill, and also talking to him in _adorable_ French...? Francis' heart wanted to melt and ooze out of his chest right away. It was a terribly adorable thing. Even if his said son was an adult.

A small silence played for a short number of minutes, them just enjoying the company of another nation, until Canada perked. "Oh! I forgot. Papa, can you hand me my phone? It's the one sitting in the dock over there."

Canada pointed to the phone that sat in its charging dock on his dresser.

France looked questioning, but that did not stop him from getting up, picking up the phone, and striding over to Canada to hand it to him.

"Any reason why?" Francis asked when Matthew took the receiver from him.

"I have to phone my government back. It's highly likely they forgot to phone back after that little 'mix up' and I just want to be sure that I get the information I need. Before I go back to sleep or have lunch... You know, it's best to be prepared, eh?" Canada smiled, and he held the phone in front of him and began to press its buttons for the special number.

"Oui..." France was slightly dubious. "Forgot?"

"Haha yes. They are really busy you know; lots of things to deal with, and if that new woman thought that I was an imposter, then dealing with 'the imposter' wouldn't exactly be the highest on their list of things to do. So I should just phone back."

"Ah... Oui." France nodded and gestured that he'd be quiet so that Canada could phone.

The ringer rang and his phone was patched through to the correct line almost immediately. The perks of being a personification, really. He knew, that by this point, his Prime Minister wouldn't be able to speak to him, probably far too busy. But getting the message that his boss wanted to give him would be good enough.

"_Hello_?" Came the familiar ambiguous standard line.

"Hello, this is Matthew Williams speaking. The representative of Canada. I am phoning back in regards to a phone call that was placed earlier?"

"_Ah yes. You phoned before, correct?_" The man on the other line of the phone asked. Canada found himself brightening for no real reason that he could fathom other than that he was happy that it was going to be so easy.

"Yes! Exactly. There had been a mix-up you see, so I would like to request to see the instructions that had been left for me-"

"_May I stop you there... sir?"_

"... Yes. You may."

_"- We have no record of a 'Matthew Williams' on file for this line. We do not know how you got access to this line, but is restricted to the use of a Country Representative only."_

Canada paled, and he blinked several times. He then forced the expression off his face the best he could for the sake of Francis who was watching him intently.

Shit.

Even in this situation, Canada could not bear to cause his family any more worry than he already caused. So he was sure to brighten his expression and gave a small laugh at nothing. "Oh I definitely understand that," He said vaguely enough for the man on the phone to understand, but hopefully so Francis would not pick up on it.

_"Then may I ask how you managed to obtain this number when it is clearly illegal to pose as a country representative..._"

Canada felt himself pale more and he held onto his cheery expression tightly. "Oh I know that as well."

_"Then you understand if you phone this number again we'll be forced to phone the authorities and the one you are impersonating._"

"Actually," Canada said, overly bright, "You do that right now. I think that's an _excellent_ idea. You go right ahead and phone again, alright? I'll be waiting."

_ "..."_

"Alright. Goodbye for now." Canada then deftly hung up the phone.

France stared at him in complete confusion. Just what was Matthew talking about? Phoning him back? And did he imagine Canada having a sudden heart-achingly broken looking expression for a second? Maybe he was reading too much into things.

"Ahha." His laugh was slightly nervous; afraid that he'd get caught in a lie. "They were a little busy," Matthew quickly lied as if it was second nature. "So they said that they'd phone me back once they get the chance. So I'll be getting a phone call soon."

He swallowed. He was suddenly afraid that when they phoned his home, that they would not recognize him and again result in more frustration, so...

"Papa, may you please do me a favour?"

"What do you wish for me to do mon petite?"

If they wouldn't recognize himself, then surely the Government would have their memory jogged when talking to France. He really was a very unforgettable person. He was certain the moment that Francis introduced himself, there'd be no doubt who he was. "If the phone rings, can you answer it? I may be sleeping when they do and I am kind of tired so I don't want to talk on the phone long a-"

Francis put up his hand. "Say not a word more mon petite! I shall do this for you! It is nothing, non?"

"Merci Papa..."

France smiled and put his hand on Canada's head and again softly ruffled his hair. Matthew felt a sinking feeling about the fact he so easily twisted a lie and wrapped his father up in it. But if he wanted anything right then, all he wanted was to no longer cause his family any trouble. That also meant _avoiding_ adding anything _else_ on their already too-full platters.

Besides... They'd phone again soon enough... Realise their mistake... All would be well...

… Right?

Francis' hand had roved from the top of his head to the side of his face, his eyebrows furrowing as he regarded how Canada seemed a shade or two paler, and did he feel a bit warmer? Clammier? Perhaps he was just over worrying again.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"Come in," Francis said, withdrawing his worrying hand and shaking his head.

In came two blonde-haired men holding a tray apiece. Alfred had a soup bowl and a plate of sandwiches balanced on his, as well as a glass of some random blue soda and a mug of piping hot tea. England was holding a tray himself, but both plates had sandwiches on them and two mugs of piping hot tea.

"What is this?" France inquired as he was handed a plate and a mug before England stole up a chair and sat down in it.

"Lunch," he said simply, slightly dismissively. "And don't get any bloody funny ideas from it."

America decided to sit on the edge of the bed since well, Canada only had two chairs in his room and Alfred didn't want to be sitting on the _floor_. That was a highly undignified position for such a great nation to be in! A hero even! That would be terrible and unbecoming. So he sat next to his little bro.

"Heya Mattie! I got some... uh... Liquid for you. Sorry. We weren't sure if you could handle a sandwich as the last few times you ate your stomach sorta-kinda rejected solid food."

Canada smiled, with some embarrassment. "Vegetable broth?" He inquired, looking at the rust coloured liquid in the bowl.

"Yep!" Alfred unfurled the legs of the tray, revealing that it was in fact one of those trays specially meant for breakfast-in-bed. Well, in this case it was lunch-in-bed.

"It's fine Al," Matthew commented, looking at the tea then the broth. He picked up his spoon. "This is perfect. Thank you." He looked up at England. "And thank you for the tea."

"No problem. If only your brother were the same. He refused to have any. Instead of going for that... that..." He gestured to the blue atrocity in America's cup. "I... I have no bloody clue. But it's the wrong colour to be _consumed_."

Alfred harrumphed. "Blue makes everything better." He lifted his drink from the tray and brought the drink to his lips.

"Why in the bloody hell do you have a _blue_ fizzy pop in your refrigerator?" England demanded of his younger son.

"Alfred gave it to me." A simple, true, answer.

"Ah. It all makes sense now..."

Canada chuckled softly. Alfred relieved his tray of his sandwiches and Matthew dipped his spoon into the broth and slowly brought it to his lips. But he paused

His whole family, most likely unaware of it, were sitting there and pretty much staring at him in complete anticipation.

Canada faltered "... U...Uh. S'kinda awkward to be watched like that while eating… I... I know how to eat soup..."

Embarrassed, his three family members adverted their eyes to their own food and simultaneously they either took a bite of their sandwiches or apologized for being so blatantly rude.

Another chuckle and Canada took a few spoonfuls of the soup.

England was content at that, feeling more relaxed the more he knew he was now _in control_ of the situation rather than feeling like he was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. He felt that he had a rather good grasp of the circumstances as a whole, and knowing that relieved some of the bubbling anxiety that had remained in the pit of his chest.

Canada was getting something into his stomach, and he was getting proper nutrients. He was in bed and resting. He had proper medication. And he was _home_ and not in an unfamiliar place. Canada was safe. And he was in _his care_.

Feeling more comfortable than he had in the past twenty-four hours, England fell into a calm silence like everyone else; finishing off his own lunch. He had to admit, Alfred was rather good at making sandwiches. He'd never confess though, that he knew that if _he_ had made them, they'd be less than... 'good'. He'd never acknowledge that though.

They all finished their lunches and France did the favour of gathering up the plates and taking them downstairs to the dishwasher in the kitchen.

Canada started to settle back into his bed. Alfred stood up from the side of it, and before he let his brother get back down into a proper laying position, he took a hold of Matthew's pillow, took both ends of it and furiously began to fluff the thing.

"... Alfred what in the blazes are you...?"

"Fluffing it!" Alfred said happily. "That's just what he needs, right? A good _fluffed_ pillow!" He shoved it back under Matthew and got Canada to lay back down on it. "Is that good bro?"

Canada laughed. "The softest pillow I've felt in a long time, Alfred. Thank you."

"Ahahaha!" America put his hands on his hips in triumph. "Yes. The hero saves the day!"

England rolled his eyes, but was smiling nevertheless. He never could deny there was a certain charm sometimes to the way the brother's acted towards each other. He pulled his chair up to the side of Canada's bed while he mused over the 'boys'. He broke away his attentions from then, and to just Matthew as a whole.

"Alright Matthew..." He reached out and put a hand on Canada's forehead.

As he examined him, he noted with a kind of precision that only a parent had, that Canada seemed a touch paler than before, not to mention his skin felt slightly clammy.

"Matthew?" He queried, pulling his hand away from his forehead that was only a minute degree higher than before. But parental instincts made him notice it with a mere touch of his hand.

"Yes...?"

"Matthew, how are you feeling?" He asked this tentatively afraid that Canada could be declining for some reason.

"Mmn...? Well I'm not perfect." That much was obvious. "... But I feel okay."

"Ah, well. You seem a little more... off... than you did before. Did you do anything strenuous before we came in for lunch?"

Canada shook his head. "I... I just slept. And I phoned my government back and-"

Alfred cut him off. "Matt! You _shouldn't_ have. You know what dickheads they were to you before! Did they talk shit about you again and forget who you were?"

Canada felt a clench hit his heart and he waved that off. "N-no! No they didn't! They recognized me," he quickly lied with ease, "but they were very busy, so they told me they'd phone back with all the details."

"Phone you back...?"

Matthew nodded. "Yes. They understood. Th... They apologized."

If England didn't know any better, Canada was looking paler than even a few moments before. "Matthew... Perhaps you should get some rest, yes? I'm glad that your government has straightened themselves out. If they hadn't, I'd give that trainee a good talking to myself."

"Dad... You really wouldn't have to..."

"Oh and I _would_." England said tersely. "No doubt about this! I would go right down their and yell in their bloody faces for forgetting their own nation! Of all the _nerve_! I'd march right down there and give them a piece of my mind. And never mind them being _Canadian_, I wouldn't censor myself for their sake!" He reamed off suddenly with fire. "Oh they'd regret it. They should be bloody well thankful that they had come to the right conclusion and-"

America then cut _England_ off sharply. England blinked then looked at his son oddly. Who was pointing at Canada who looked even paler than he did before.

Instantly Arthur felt guilty. He shouldn't be yelling in a sensitive situation like this. He understood, in the back of his head, that he was mostly going off like this because... He felt guilty. He had been the one to write off his son most of the time, and didn't even recognise him when he was _standing in front of him_.

He sighed, and he stood, beginning to tuck the covers in. "Alright. Alright. I apologize Matthew. I suppose nerves are running high."

He adjusted the pillow and he leaned, brushing back the hair on Canada's forehead, and not caring that Matthew was pretty much full-grown, he tenderly kissed his forehead.

"You get a good sleep, and a good rest." He drew back. "We'll take care of everything from here."

"Okay."

"Have a nice sleep Mattie."

"Okay. Thank you."

One more thing was done just before his father and brother left the room. Kumajirou wandered into the room quietly, he clambered onto the bed, and before England could stop him, he nuzzled down under the sheets, wriggled himself under Canada's arm and balled up next to him; in a weird from of adorable protection.

Matthew was smiling brightly and he reached to stroke Kumajirou's fur as sleep slowly overtook him once more.

The door closed, leaving Canada in the dark to rest.

. . .

Hard leather boots collided with the sidewalk as a very large man made strides towards a small and quaint clinic. The sun was out, denying any indication of a storm from the night before. Denying the thundering rain, the pummelling winds and the downright viciousness that had tore through. Now? It was as bright as ever, and the air felt fresh and clean with every breath.

Russia hardly noticed.

Ivan shoved open the clinic door with a certain amount of determination, but with a frank void and darkness about him.

The receptionist there - a different one, he noticed - stood up and she gestured in slight panic. "O-oh! I'm sorry! Please. We're not open right now because the doctor had to deal with an unusual circumstance from the night before so we're not op-" She froze at the dark aura that Russia emitted from every pore.

She gulped. "I... I'll get him for you."

Ivan treated her to a delighted smile at that, though painfully fake, the vaporous aura dissipating. "Good, thank you," he said with extreme politeness. "Hurry up, da?"

It did not make her feel any better, and she skirted around the corner to get the man who was still reorganizing and cleaning up from the night before.

Russia waited, standing by the receptionist's desk for when the man would appear. Every so often, he'd tug on the scarf that was wound around his neck, rubbing his thumb against the woollen and rough texture of a hand-knitted garment.

When the doctor appeared he turned his attention fully to the man.

The doctor was surprised. His receptionist came in so flustered and panicked, that he was sure that a gun-wielding mad man had been there until she described him as being one of the men that had come earlier. Still surprised, he made haste in appearing for the man, feeling it rude to leave him waiting.

"Ah..." Confusing laced his tone, "I didn't expect you. I made the assumption that you had left..."

"I did not."

The man stepped up to him. "What can I do for you; do you want to know where the others went? They left some number of hours ago..."

"No I do not. I know where Matvey and his family went," he gestured absently. "They went back to Matvey's house, yes?"

"Yes. If you mean the man I treated last night, then yes..."

An awkward silence played out and the doctor shifted. He of course, not being physic, had no idea what the Russian man _wanted_. Even though he was being _stared_ at like the large man was trying to bore some something out of him just by a mere look. He felt beads of sweat start to form at his brow, and he uncomfortably shifted his gaze away before starting back on the man that he couldn't tell hated him or not…

"So what can I...?" He started for Ivan, hopefully coming to the conclusion why this rather _intense_ person was there.

Ivan stepped very close to the doctor, his eyes narrowed in threat, "I do not know why. But for some reason, I do not like you." He seemed annoyed, angry, upset. He also seemed confused and wanting to know answers.

"W... What was that?" The doctor faltered.

It had only just started to bother Ivan. Only a few hours after they all had parted ways. He had come to the undeniable conclusion that he heavily disliked the man. Normally disliking someone was not a bother to him at all, but what _did_ bother him was the complete lack of control towards whom he hated. Why did he dislike this man suddenly? He did not like the idea of these feelings being brought up without a reason.

Everything had a reason.

"I said," He repeated, "_I do not like you_." He put a hand on the man's shoulder heavily, grip tightening. "And I want to find out _why_."

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**Author's Note :  
**

I gave this chapter a weird name 'cause I could. Anyway. Aww. I wanted to give Canada some good tender love and care that he deserved. But urg. Look at that silly plot. Being all... plot-like and ploty. And stuff. Hahahaha. This was strangely fun to write.

Ohhh Russia.

And now for a comforting chapter summary:

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**Chapter 11 Preview : ** Well Shit.

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Wasn't that comforting?

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Thanks for Reading! **Read and REVIEW** please! Every little bit helps and goes towards making me know what you guys like!

AND OMG I LOVE ALL OF YOU. I'D ASK YOU ALL TO MARRY ME BUT I ALREADY HAVE A BEAUTIFUL WEDDING SET OUT APPARENTLY. I'll send out invites if I'm allowed to. I can't make these decisions without my significant other. Hahahaha.

If I haven't responded to your review... I apologize. I'm going to get down off my lazy bum and do that.

I shall attempt to respond to reviews this time too! Thanks bunches.

I LOVE YOU ALL.


	11. Bloody Handprints

**Disclaimer of this Chapter :** Swearing has kinda lightened up. For this chapter, at least. I can't promise about future chapters though.

**Ownership :** I own nuffin. Well. I own stuff. Not Hetalia. (Gunna get the anime and manga soon though... Eeee)

**Important Note :** ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down any nation in question. This is based off of characterisations and not the countries invovled. Thank you very much.

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What is this? A chapter? No way. Really? Yes. It seems so. Wow. My goodness. Look at that.

This is a bathemoth chapter. It's HUGE.

Also. Check out my profile for links to fanart and comics that were done 'recently'! Amazing! I'm forgoing linking in the chapter 'cause it's a hassle. Please comment and look at their work! Please! Too awesome. Thank you Bbissocute and Shyro Foxfeather! You guys are wicked. Seriously.

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**Chapter Eleven Summary :** It's getting a little too serious for everyone to remain so completely oblivious...

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**- Chapter 11 - Bloody Handprints - **

The even and harsh footsteps of a very tall, very upset, Russian man were the last thing the doctor heard for a number of minutes, followed by the slamming and the jingle of the clinic door. At least, they were the only things he heard beyond the drum-like beating of his heart deep in his chest, pounding so hard that he could feel the individual pulses in his wrists and temples.

He sat on the floor, his back pressed against the cool clinic wall, his head slumped down for a moment as he regained his composure.

The encounter with the man had been... harrowing. Terrifying. Never once he felt it was possible to be so scared by a single man alone. It felt like he had an army staring him down, all having him in the sights of their sniper rifles, aware that he could see them, and not caring that he could nearly foresee his imminent death and he could not do a thing about it.

He put a shaky hand on his head and rubbed it through his hair as he forced even breaths.

He thought he was going to _die_ when he was in the Russian's hands. But he had come out of the ordeal mostly unharmed, if not a bit mentally bruised.

Never in his life had he ever met a country before. Never had he _ever_ experienced anything remotely... like... like...

He shuddered, looping his hands through his hair. He had just met Russia. Russia. _Russia_. He supposed now it was fairly obvious. But the man had been so angry, so upset, so... so... It was indescribable, but the hate the man was playing for him was so thick that it was nearly palatable. He could almost _taste_ the smog of it in the air.

He took a few more breaths and forced himself to stand, brushing off his coat.

He didn't even know what he had done wrong. Mind stressed and not wanting to submit himself to any more pain, the doctor found that he couldn't remember the encounter beyond a faint haze. Russia had demanded very angrily answers to questions. Seemingly _trivial_ questions as far as he was concerned...

Apparently one of his answers flipped some sort of berserk switch, sending him off the deep end of whatever pool of festering anger he was teetering against. It would definitely explain why his back felt so sore, and why he was sure that he was slammed into the wall hard enough to bruise his shoulders for quite some time...

Despite that, as the doctor rounded the corner of the hallway to assure his receptionist that he was alright, he felt a heavy and sinking weight of guilt wrap around his stomach; unable to brush away the feeling that somehow he deserved it. Somehow.

"Close up the clinic," he said tightly, swallowing and regaining his few last threads of composure. "I'm done for the day."

He turned quickly after that to retreat into a room somewhere so he could sit and think. Alone.

. . .

Canada and the other nations that formed his family, were occupying his modest home. They were each unaware of the horrifying experience the doctor received at the hands of Russia, so each were unconcerned with the man entirely. Compared to the day before? Each and every one of them were relaxed and calm; they were just revelling in the sanity that was calm, quiet and orderliness.

It was soft predictability at its best. No unexpected surprises, no sudden turn of events, just calm and quiet times that they could _finally_ relax in.

A whole day passed like this. Night fell and the day rose again. None of the three nations that were guests in Matthew's house dared to leave it. America slept on the couch downstairs, France slept in the guestroom, and England fell asleep at Matthew's bedside, head in his cross-over arms and slumped over on the soft mattress.

Kumajirou was curled tightly into Canada's side, who was slumbering quietly, his eyebrows drawn tightly in mild discomfort.

The sun rose with a vengeance, splattering light through the window and spraying morning light across Matthew's bed and onto the floor, illuminating the space as birds began their morning communications. Canada did not so much as shift at the feeling of light against his flesh, but Arthur twitched under the sun's glare.

"Nmn..." He shifted, eyebrows furrowing and he rubbed his face in his arms in an attempt to ward off the oncoming morning. "Mmn..."

He shifted, feeling a sudden crick in his neck grab him, and he blinked his eyes open blearily, rubbing the knot in his neck with two fingers and a thumb as he levered himself into an upright position. Just where -

Oh he did… didn't he…?

He stood slowly, pushing back the chair, and with a _crack_ he pushed his back with his hands to realign himself. He did _not_ intend to sleep beside Canada. He originally intended to go downstairs and sleep on that lovely recliner that Matthew had...

He winced at residue numbness and stiffness, and slowly shuffled out of the room in an attempt to leave Canada be to sleep. With a heaved yawn, he rubbed at his eye as he descended the steps back down the stairs and to the living room.

England peered inside, and saw Alfred sprawled on the couch hap-hazardly, his arm covering his face and a copious amount of drool echoed the snore that erupted from his throat. Arthur snuffed air out of his nose at the sight of his son just _laying_ there like that and he turned to go into the kitchen to start himself a good cup of tea.

He had just sat down with a steaming cuppa, looking over a week-old newspaper he saw on the counter, when there were signs of life from the southern brother. Alfred stirred quietly, then gave a snort. His eyes flung open and he sat up, hair sticking up every which way and he looked around. "Bah? Bg... bgwuh?"

My. How handsome.

"Goodmorning," England supplied for him, and took a healthy sip of his English breakfast tea, and pulled the borrowed-robe around himself tighter to ward off the morning cool.

Alfred scratched his head, heaved a yawn, cracked his shoulders then he turned to England, looking ten times more awake than before. "Hey! Goodmornin'!"

"Mmn," was England's dismissive grunt; he was _awake_, not _pleasant_.

Alfred swung his legs off the couch and then stood up, stretching again.

"Man... Mattie's couch is comfy. Could be a teensy bit _longer_ though," he commented as he strode up to the table and he sat down. "So! What's for breakfast?"

England looked up at him slowly, his eyebrow turned to one long arch and he let out an amused snort.

America inquired on that expression, "... What?"

"I'm not cooking breakfast. Make it yourself if you want any. I've just woken up. I'm not particularly hungry." With that stated, England turned his attention back down at the newspaper, and began to read on a current popular brand of hockey skates that was taking Canada's hockey players by storm...

Alfred watched him for a few tense minutes, and when he realised that he was _not_ going to make breakfast, he stood again. Without a word he turned out of the room.

This made England put down the paper. "Alfred? Where are you going?"

"Askin' Mattie what he wants for breakfast," was all that England could catch before America disappeared from view entirely and was obviously making his way up the stairs to Matthew's room.

"... Bloody!" England got up, slamming the paper down, and chased after him. "Alfred!" He hissed. "Alfred! You sound like an _elephant_. Don't wake him up-"

Sounds of America's 'elephant feet' already made it to the top of the stairs and down the hallway.

And by the time _he_ made it up the stairs, quickly, but without sounding like a herd of buffalo while doing so, he was too late; Alfred had already opened Matthew's bedroom door and stepped inside.

Oh... England wanted to kill him. Matthew was _just_ getting over something, and he needed his _rest_. He was showing great improvement, and almost seemed _normally ill_ by the time that they went to bed the previous night! He did _not_ want this to blow up back in his face; especially not after all that stress and worry.

But Alfred had made a strange sound of surprise. "... Mattie?"

England was on his heels and in the room as _soon_ as that came out of Alfred's lips. His hands were still on the doorframe and he looked in, panicked. "What's wrong? What's wr-"

Matthew was not in bed, and the master bedroom's bathroom light was on, and the distinctive shadow of a person was there. Then the sound of a flushing toilet and running water. Kumajirou was pawing at the door from the outside.

"... Oh... bloody..."

"Aw _man_..."

Was he sick again? Was he unable to hold food down _still_? They could barely get him to eat any more soup before they all went to bed, and just only managed to give him his medicine and some supplements to improve his strength. Throwing it all back up was going to be of little help.

"... Something... wrong...?" Matthew offered, the bathroom door open, and the Canadian man stood there, arm steadying himself on the frame and he looked onwards to his family in mild confusion.

Alfred was the first to arrive, and he drove Canada back to his bed. "Sit down Mattie! Are you okay? Are you sick again? How's your stomach feel?"

"-... I fee-"

"Bloody hell Alfred, don't _manhandle_ him," England shoved him away and he put his hands on Matthew's shoulders. "Speak up. Tell us how you feel. It's best we get a good picture so we know what we can do."

Canada flushed pink, he muttered something, "h'd.. p..."

"... Sorry... I didn't catch that."

"I said... I had to _pee_," he hissed, incredibly embarrassed. "I'm _fine_."

England withdrew instantly and blathered for a second then looked incredibly lost with himself. He stood back and tried to busy himself with tying the front of the robe over and adjusting it needlessly. "Yes! Well... We... we're just _checking_..." He laughed awkwardly after that. "Just… checking…"

A cough.

America had a very flat face, and he was acting as if this was all England's fault in the first place, despite _him_ being the one to give the initial alert.

After a few long awkward seconds, Alfred sat down beside Matthew on the bed, and looked over at the Canadian nation. "So! I'm gunna go and pick something up for breakfast. Is there _anything_ I can get ya? Anything. And I mean... anything a store can buy. I dun' just mean those breakfast places. I really do mean anything."

"U... uh... No. No thank you. I'm not hungry," Canada shifted, but he smiled. "Thank you though."

Alfred's mouth drew to a line, and England agreed with the expression. _Again_? Really? It wasn't highly known, but Canada could be a big-eater when he wanted to be. But generally nobody noticed this fact. It was something that England remembered when raising the boy, and the fact that America sometimes liked to marvel that somehow Canada could rival him when eating. _While remaining somehow polite_.

"Alfred," England took his 'elder' son's attention. "If you please... Could you go out and get a few things for me?"

"I wasn't askin' _you_. I was askin' Mattie," Alfred harrumphed.

"_Alfred_," England grit. "I want you to get something for _Matthew_," He stressed with an annoyed grunt. Really. Of all the nerve.

Alfred turned, looking more interested then. "Oh? What do you want then?"

"I want you to go to the store and get some things... I'll write them down. So _when_ Matthew feels hungry again," He glanced at Canada to assure him they weren't going to force him to eat, "he has some good and stomach-soft options. We can't keep filling him with broth."

Alfred nodded. "Alright. Agreed. You go do that. Go write a list-thingy of what you want." He made dismissive gestures with his hand.

Arthur didn't particularly want to leave the room now that his younger son was awake, but he nodded and turned from the room nevertheless, leaving the elder with the younger. He glanced at Matthew, eyeing him over before he finally shut the door again.

Alfred stretched and flopped back onto the bed with a loud sigh.

Canada watched his brother go down and he looked over at him. "..." Who, at his point, gave him a very wide and toothy grin.

A moment of silence followed, Matthew didn't lay back down to lay beside his brother, he instead watched him. After a moment more, and when America levered himself back up, he spoke. "Alfred..."

"Yeah Matt?"

"... I'm feeling a lot better. I'm... I'm not one-hundred percent, but my fever's not so bad," he put a hand to his head, "My stomach doesn't hurt much anymore," it moved to his stomach, "And I don't feel so _weak_..."

"That's _great!_" Alfred grinned.

"... You should go home."

America's smile was wiped away rather quickly and he blinked at his brother. "Wha? Leave? You want me to go home? But why?"

Canada fiddled with his hands in his lap. "You _all_ need to go home, Al. Not just you. Dad and Papa too. I'm okay now. We went to the doctor, and I know what it is. I feel better because of the medication, and I... I've been a _lot_ of trouble. The meeting is going to re-gather soon, and if you guys don't prepare for it you might get in tro-"

Alfred waved his head. "Geeze Matt! Slow down! We're not going to get in _trouble_."

"You still need to go home."

"Matt..."

"Please."

"Mattie..."

"_Please_."

Alfred snuffed air out of his nose and he put his hands behind his head and he fell backward on the bed again, causing Canada to bounce with the weight of him falling against the fabric. "Come on Mattie. We can't go home..."

"You have to go home. You've been away from your own countries and duties far too long. I know that you've been busy with various things... I just _can't_ be the center of your focus anymore..." as ironic as that was to say.

America turned. "Matt. We aren't going to go just yet."

"But-"

"- Come on Matthew. You remember how you were the day before, or how about the day before _that_? It's not something you can just shrug off and pretend never happened; even _if_ you feel a little better now. We're here 'cause we want to be, and it's not showing proper kindness or _politeness_," he stressed, "If you try to kick us out when we're doing you a favour."

Canada tensed, and he looked down, his hands wringing. "S-sorry..."

America shifted upward again and he draped his arm on Matthew's shoulder. "B'sides, we don't often get to spend time with each other, so give us this chance, huh? This is kinda fun now that you're feeling better. Hey, how about later we go for a round of _blowing up zombies_. Huh? Sound fun?"

Matthew looked at his brother, and gave a ghost of a grin, then a proper smile. "O... Okay."

"There ya go! Awesome! Me and you, the hero and the backup, will go and destroy those vicious night-crawlers with our mighty boots engaged!"

Matthew laughed. "O-okay... But don't stay longer than you really have to."

"... Matt-"

"I _mean_ it, Al. If you need to be somewhere, if you're called somewhere, don't hesitate to go. I'll feel worse if you're falling behind in things because of me. You can always come back if you want to. You always can come back."

"Well of course I can always come back," Alfred said, snuffing an amused huff of air through his bangs. "I'll visit my brother whenever I want to; 'cause I'm the hero!"

The thumbs-up he gave, coupled with the teeth-glint grin was all that was needed to get Matthew to give his brother a rather wide and honest smile. It was something that was heart-warmingly relieving for the elder nation to be seeing. Relaxed and happy was a thousand times better than stressed and in pain.

In the moments that Canada smiled, America looked him over, appraising how he looked. He _looked_ like shit still. His skin was still off-coloured but better, he still had dark patches under his eyes, his hair still looked wilted and stressed, far different than it's normal curl and bounce that France claimed was every bit of _his_ influence.

He was going to speak again, satisfied that Matthew seemed to be getting better, when something caught his eye. No. Two things. He wasn't sure why they both caught his attention at the same time, but they just did.

Matthew's face, and the phone.

The first thing he paid attention to was his brother's face. There was a very faint smear of red under Canada's nose. It looked like it was just under both nostrils, a light pale red that was already drying and flaking. He followed it, and could see the ghost-like remains of blood on his cheek. Like a smear of a hand or wrist brushing to wipe a bloody nose...

The second thing he noticed was the phone off the hook. He noticed it because suddenly the dead-tone was ringing out, and once his mind recognized it, he couldn't push it out of his head.

Alfred stood. Oddly enough, he moved to address the phone first. His expression changed. Canada confused of why America had moved in the first place. Alfred watched Canada out of the corner of his eye when he moved to pick up the dangling receiver of the old cord-phone, and he hung it back up.

Canada had swallowed and looked away sharply. To his surprise, Canada nervously _rubbed at his cheek_, as if trying to remove something that was not there anymore. More so than that, he had rubbed under his nose, and unknowingly got rid of the last flecks of remaining blood that had been clinging there.

Before Alfred could speak, however, Canada spoke himself.

"Ah... Um... Anyway. Remember, you can go when you want, but you can come back whenever you want too..." His voice trailed.

"Matt-"

A voice interrupted at the doorway, "You are _most_ correct about that, young man," Arthur interjected and he stepped in the room holding the list out for Alfred. "Go on. Fetch those items on the list if you can. And whatever else you deem necessary. And _no,_ neither Francis nor I would appreciate eating whatever it is _you_ like to call food. France has already offered to make us all breakfast. He's added the ingredients he wants at the bottom."

Alfred's mouth had been open to speak, but he closed it. For a moment he contemplated saying something, mentioning something. But he decided to forgo that for the time being. So he shoved all his observations to the back of his mind, and took the list.

He mulled the contents of the paper over, standing and mussing Canada's hair with his free hand. "I'll be back bro. After we eat an awesome breakfast, let's go play video games."

"Hahha... Okay..."

England began to shove him out the door irritably. "Out! Go on. Shoo. Get on with it already. I'm bloody _starving_."

"But before you said you weren't hu-" And so Alfred was shoved out of the room, and the door was closed once more.

"_Well_." Arthur said, straightening his shirt, as he removed the robe, and he strode to Matthew. His manner softened considerably. "Now Matthew. Why don't you have a nice lay-down? Mn?"

Canada couldn't so-much as interject before he was gently guided back down upon the bed with a firm but caring hand. The blankets and comforter were drawn back upon him, and England perched beside him.

"Now. Let me see."

First, he placed a hand on Canada's forehead, then, he felt his cheek, and lastly he picked up his injured wrist carefully, and felt along it to be sure that it was still held in place tightly, and didn't feel overly warm, or that Canada didn't give any indication of pain.

When he passed all the tests well enough, his father sat back.

Canada was wary. He could feel England scouring every inch of him. Looking at every little detail and examining every little aspect of Matthew. It was like he was looking for any _inkling_ that something could be wrong. Absently, anxiously, Canada wiped at his mouth and looked down at his hands, the gaze becoming far too uncomfortable for him to properly handle.

England's eyes drew to Canada's mouth.

Something was...

He blinked and he took Canada's chin, much to Matthew's surprise, and tilted his face up to the light.

"Is that..."

Matthew felt like he was being appraised for sale.

"... blood?"

Canada stared at England and he shoved the hand away and began to rub furiously at the small smear of dried blood just at the corner of the mouth. It was invisible really, unless one was _looking _for something like that.

"Matthew..."

"N... No. Well, yes," he said. He amended quickly. "It's not _bad_. Sometimes it just happens. I don't know… But, you know, gums can bleed when you brush them... I was just brushing my teeth after I went to the bathroom this morning..."

England watched him carefully. His expression was demanding; demanding that Matthew was telling the truth and lying to him. On the inside though, Arthur knew that blood was just a terrifying thing to add to an already too-long list of frightening symptoms Canada already had. It was everything he took to keep his heart out of his throat.

"I _swear_," Canada pressed.

"... You're sure?"

"I'm positive. It's a little annoying. I think I need to floss more..." He trailed.

After a moment or more of being scrutinized England let out a noticeable whoosh of air and sat back. "Well _good_. Good. That's excellent. Well. No. That's not excellent. Rather annoying, yes. But excellent."

Before Canada could say another word, he was ushered into a proper laying position and the sheets were smoothed over him. "Right. Okay. You lay down and get more rest, alright?" England guided with a parental touch. "Just get all the rest you can. Rest up. Give me a call if you're hungry."

Matthew was going to move, to argue, to point out that he had been in bed and sleeping so _much_ already.

"Ah... Matthew... It's best you _rest_. No worries. You look exhausted still. Sleep."

On que, Kumajirou decided to nuzzle into Matthew's side in such a way that invaded his movement and proved to hamper his ability to worm his way out of bed. Arthur looked more than approving.

"Alright. I'll let you be. Sleep well."

Canada, unable to really argue, and already feeling the tug of sleep trying to re-claim him once more, turned in his bed, and heard the soft click of the door shutting behind his father.

Before he closed his eyes though, he gave one last wipe across his face, and was relieved that England believed him.

. . .

It was a short number of hours later. Not too many, but Arthur was fed and awake, and so were France and America. Canada was still asleep in his bed, and they decided that they'd leave him be until it got too late in the day for him to be skipping meals.

England was pleased that Canada was still asleep; for he decided that Matthew needed to get the maximum amount of sleep possible for him to be able to kick his ailment out the door and onto the curb. Else he swore to himself he'd go grey if the boy got out of the bed before he was really supposed to.

At that moment, England was in Canada's study. A very nice modest room, filled wall-to-wall with books, and lovely stained wooden floors and what little was visible of the walls. Heavy leather-bound books were the majority, with newer ones sprinkling through the collection. He had decided to take him time to _read_ some of these books, and was delighted with his discoveries.

He had no clue what America and France were up to. He hadn't seen much of either of them after eating the breakfast that France produced, and he only assumed that Alfred was up to shenanigans, and France was out trying to grope something. Not that he cared. As long as they were leaving Matthew alone, then whatever they did was fine by him. As well as if it didn't involve _him_ in any fashion.

Arthur flipped another page in the book. These were fascinating. They had to do with extremely deep-rooted families of Canada. Very loyal families. Stories about them from when the Country was formed, or when provinces or territories had be added to the great expanse. It was a brilliant read, and there were several books, all by the same author. He was learning a great deal, and reading about the colonial beginnings of some long-running Canadian families were absolutely _fascinating_; especially when they were British in origin.

He stopped reading after a time, his eyes growing sore in the dim light of the study, and he put the book down on top of the stack of its relative books. He rubbed his eyes and drew open the blinds to let in a flood of light.

It was amazing the stories that came out of such simple citizens; citizens that nobody would look twice at, let alone write a _book_ about. But... there they were. Stories and family histories. The pages were worn and very well-read. It wasn't hard to imagine Canada pouring over them time and time again...

He was going to ask to borrow them if he had the chance to. He was far too engrossed in the author's style, and he'd like to finish the series. If possible.

He sat down to read again, flipping open the page and revelling in the proper-light when a vicious scratching sound suddenly invading his quiet space.

It was loud and grating, and was _pounding_ on the lower-half of the door.

England's head jerked up and he blinked, turning his head and putting down the book. "What in the _blazes_..."

He got up, and the door was still being scratched at, sounds of claws against wood, of paws pounding on the door.

"Hold! I'm _coming_," Arthur said as he made a quick-step to the doorway. "I'm coming."

He opened the door quickly to see Kumajirou standing there on his hind legs, paws coming down now that he was no longer beating on the door. Did the bear have to go pee or something? Did they have to let the bear out to take a piss on a tree somewhere?

Before he could open his mouth to voice the question, Kumajirou's voice cut through the momentary silence, panicked and frightened, "Matthew needs help!"

...

A cold chill ran down England's throat and wavered at the base of his stomach. Without wasting a moment, he turned and bolted from the room, dashing to where Canada was supposed to be, at record speeds.

It was not because the bear looked so damn concerned. It was not because the bear's voice sounded worried where normally it'd be indifferent. It was not because the bear had been practically trying to scratch the door down in attempts to get to him. It was because the bear had said Matthew. _Matthew_.

It was hard enough to get the bear to remember who Canada was, let alone his country name. But... his human name? It was _unheard _of.

It was not a good sign.

England was followed by Kumajirou as he reached Matthew's door, and the bear called out, "He's bleeding everywhere!"

_"Bleeding!"_

That comment nearly made Arthur skid to a complete stop, but instead let it propel him through the door and into Canada's bedroom. He had all but flung the door straight off his hinges.

Canada was not in bed. The sheets were crumpled and some of them were viciously red-stained. Matthew himself was still in the room, wobbly making his way to the bathroom, stumbling in his physical fatigue, and leaving a messy smeared handprint on the wall. His other hand was cupped to his face as it was trying to hold back a vicious nosebleed that snaked between thin fingers.

Arthur's green eyes widened, and he called ironically, though it was lost on him, "Bloody hell!"

No time was wasted in getting to Matthew, who had only just realised that England was at the door when the man had come down upon him to guide him to the bathroom sharply, steadying hands on his shoulders. England shoved him into the room, and to sit down on the toilet seat lid.

Bleeding everywhere was _right_; the man's bedroom had looked like a scene from one of America's murder drama tv-shows. The nosebleed that Matthew was sporting was so positively fountainous, that it was dripping between his fingers and splattered against his thighs as he tried to cap it.

Wasting not a moment, England whipped out his finely-pressed kerchief and he pinched Canada's nose in attempt to quell the blood flow.

Outside, England was deathly calm, his lips pursed tightly as his eyebrows furrowed in a similar tight manner. He held Canada's nose with the kerchief tightly, not letting his son tip his head back but rather, forward, so the blood wouldn't drain down his throat and make him _sick_. Or suffocate him.

Inside, he was panicking. He had just come into the room to see Matthew bleed viciously. From the nose or not, it was still highly disturbing to see, so he held fast onto his son's nose and focused on making the flow of blood _stop_.

Hopefully it was just superficial. Just a little bit of blood that _seemed_ like a lot. God knows that had happened to him before.

Canada was quiet. He had said not a single thing at all since England had burst into the door, and he had made no attempt to say anything while England was clamped down on his nose like a vice. He was looking down at his hands, which were bloodied, and uttering not a sound, and making no inclination like he even wanted to do so in the first place.

They sat there like that for some time, several minutes passed where England had a firm grip still on Canada's nose, not yet entirely trusting the fact it had completely stopped.

So he waited more.

Carefully, as a few more minutes passed in the silence, England withdrew his hand and he carefully un-pinched Matthew's nose. Slowly. Carefully, so that he didn't jar the sensitive tissue and start it all over again.

With bated breath, he slowly withdrew the kerchief from Matthew's face and examined his son with furrowed eyebrows. Canada looked like he had gone through the ringer. The blood that smeared across his face, and even down his lips, cheeks and chin made him look like he got into a fight, and lost horribly. Even then, a thick black trickle of clotted blood ran down from one of Canada's nostrils.

When that was wiped away, there was no more fresh blood.

Something was wrong. Something wasn't... right. He could feel it as an icy chill that was still settled in his spine, and looking at Matthew he could _feel_ that something was wrong. He prayed and hoped that this was just a nosebleed, but something just wasn't _right_ damnit. England moved forward and he took Canada's chin and tilted it upwards to get a better look at his still-silent son's face.

He wanted to believe that it was the weather, a shift and change in the pressure of the air due to the passing storm, coupled by his current weakness, that caused it. He wanted to believe that.

He wiped away the blood that was smeared on his face, looking at Canada's pale pallor and the eyes that looked at him; the eyes that looked at him, but didn't _look_ at him.

"Matthew...?" He tested, quietly, of course. "Matthew, it looks like the bleeding has stopped. Quite a nosebleed you had." His voice twitched to a chipper notch, "It _looked_ terrible, but I think it's just a case of a very messy nosebleed. I doubt you bled very much if that worries you..." Worries Matthew? Who was he kidding? He just trying to comfort _himself_. He cleared his throat and continued, "If I didn't know any better, it must be the air after the storm that caused it..."

His voice trailed. No... something just wasn't...

Matthew swallowed, his skin starting to turn grey,

"Come now, boy, speak up..." England said, tensely, and swallowed himself.

Canada turned white, and slumped forwards suddenly, his lavender eyes rolling into the back of his head as he collided with England limply.

"M... _MATTHEW!_ B-bloody!" He panicked, both his arms wrapping around the slumped Canadian man and he turned his head and shouted.

"Alfred! _ALFRED_!"

Matthew was shaking slightly in England's arms, his breathing even, but had ragged edges. England started to feel the seeds of worry clench his stomach violently and he adjusted the man that was against him, feeling the sticky and warm gush of leftover blood seeping through his finely-pressed vest. Or was it fresh…?

"_ALFRED GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW! I NEED YOU! HELP! ALFRED!"_

His voice echoed off the walls and reverberated off of every surface. England's shrill cry was loud enough to penetrate through wood, floor and carpeting. Enough so that America had heard his father call loud and clear; just as if the man had just been in the other room.

The thunderous sound of footsteps crashing up the stairs was what came in response, to someone rocketing down the hallway. England, unable to take the weight of Matthew so awkwardly, was quickly readjusting him, pulling him off the toilet seat and onto the floor and into his lap instead. Sloppily, but it was better than where he was before.

A shout of surprise echoed into the bathroom from the bedroom, no doubt from the blood on the walls and the bloodied sheets, and the next thing England knew was that the door was being violently shouldered open and America was there, gun drawn, pointing forward sharply at a possible intruder; or murderer, if the expression on Alfred's face had anything to say about it.

"Gnkg... Put that _down!_" England cried. "Put that bloody down!"

Alfred surveyed the room and saw England and Canada quite alone, and no extra persons in sight.

Arthur didn't let him speak, he just gestured violently, the panic in his voice. "Just _help me_."

The gun was put away and America was beside them in an instant, his eyes wide with shock at the bloody mess of his brother and the slow stream of a nosebleed beginning again, running down past his lips and off his chin.

"Wh-...!"

"I don't _know_. Help me! Take him off me. We're going to the bedroom. Now."

America leaned and hoisted his brother off of England and stood up with the quaking Canadian. He strode out of the room and to the bedroom again. England tore the bloodied sheets off the bed and Alfred deposited Canada down upon the bare bed, letting his head rest against the feathered pillow.

"What... What _happened_?"

"Vicious nosebleed, if you can't tell by the _blood_ that is fucking _everywhere,_" England said tersely, a swear betraying his panic, and he knelt on the bed quickly and brushed back Canada's matted bangs, some of the strands of hair pulled out of the dried blood.

"Matthew," he tried, "Matthew."

Alfred was rounding on Canada's other side, and he looked completely lost, staring at his quaking and bloodied brother with a odd expression that even he wouldn't have understood. Marred with worry and confusion, America turned from the bed, and walked to the bathroom.

England was going to call him back, but he was far too focused on his other son to really care were Alfred was going at that exact moment. He'd shout for America if he didn't return.

"Matthew..." He tried again, patting Canada's cheek with one hand, feeling the stick of old blood cling to it as he did so. "Matthew."

America returned, expression still off, and he upturned a container of water over Canada's head.

"_Alfred! What do you think you're DO-_" England's words cut short, and he saw Canada sit up suddenly, spluttering at the water, and wiping his eyes with a quaking hand.

America licked his lips in thought. "He fainted," he stated simply. "This always worked when he was a kid," he appended, tone unusually calm.

Canada blinked, rubbing at his eyes and wiping his face of the liquid. He felt cold rivers of water run down his back, and for a moment, he wasn't aware of either of the two blond-haired family members that were occupying the room with him.

"_Matthew_," England stressed, not in a way to demand him to look, but rather in frank surprise and utter relief. "Oh thank bloody god."

This jerked Canada into reality, and he looked at England, then American in turn, in shock.

He had no idea they were in the room. No idea whatsoever. Their appearance _in_ the room had come as a huge shock to him, and it was clearly evident on his waterlogged and bloodied features. He looked between them, baffled, and his eyes slid to America who was still holding the container.

"Alfred...?" Matthew questioned slowly, looking at the container then back at him.

Was this some kind of joke?

The strange neutral expression that the other man was wearing betrayed it as nothing close to being a joke, and he felt wary under the gaze. He looked to his father, who's eyebrows were knitted in a furious sort of concern, his face betraying great relief.

"What...?"

England looked surprised, and he glanced at America before back at Matthew. "What do you mean, 'what'?" He questioned, carefully.

Canada felt like a child all the sudden, he shifted. "What... What are you doing in here...?"

Arthur gaped, and Alfred blinked. Matthew had no idea why this question elicited these reactions, but when England stood up abruptly in surprise, he couldn't help but jerk back at the quick motion.

"What are we _doing_ here?" England repeated, in shock. "You honestly don't know _why_ we're here?"

"W-... N... no?"

England put a hand to his face and breathed out slowly. He uncovered himself after a moment, and it was then that Canada noticed the blood that stained his hands, and the blood that was staining Arthur's vest like a wound to the heart.

"W-"

But he was cut off. "Matthew. I came in here because your bear was _panicking_. He said you were bleeding all over the place! So when I come in here, I see _you_ stumbling to the bathroom trying to keep a hold on what I could only assume was your nose's bloody _dam_ breaking! You were bleeding everywhere!"

W... what?

Canada's hands went to his face, and then he looked at his hands. He was shocked. They were covered in blood. And when he looked down at himself, at his front, he noticed that he had the obvious signs of a fresh-nosebleed. A glance at the bed and the wall spoke nothing but truth to England's words. He could do nothing but gape at his father.

"Then," England continued, still not letting Canada speak, "When I get your nose to stop ruddy bleeding, you up and _faint_ on me. It was only Alfred's quick-thinking that got you roused again. You were flat out-cold only a few moments ago."

His voice was tenor, pitched. Stressed and tight sounding and it seemed to sound to be a rant if it wasn't plainly obvious that he had been freaked out by the ordeal. America was still quiet.

Matthew swallowed dryly. "I... I don't remember any... of that... at all." He shifted and looked down apologetically. "I'm... I'm sorry. I... I caused a lot of trouble. I probably was half-asleep, or sleep-walking... It wouldn't be the first time that I've nose-bled in the middle of the night... Or when sleeping..."

America's posture changed fractions at that, but for the most part, he remained still.

England shifted, his demeanour changed. "W-! Oh... No. Matthew." He sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm not _blaming_ you at all. No. This isn't your fault. Though it gave me a right fright, it did. I can't lie about that. Are you... feeling alright?"

His eyes ventured to Canada's face.

"Y-yes..? Aside from feeling very messy, I feel alright. No different than this morning." If missing some blood wasn't factored in...

"Come on," England put a hand out and onto Canada's shoulder. "Let's get you cleaned up." His voice was nervous, dubious.

Quickly, tensely, England ushered Canada up and back to the bathroom, without a word to Alfred. The door closed behind them, and it was when the sound of running water that cued that he was beginning to help Canada clean up, did America shift.

America stayed in the bedroom. Quietly. He glanced about him. His eyes then rest on the phone. It was hanging off it's hook, and the dull tone of the line droned in the silence. England probably never noticed it.

Carefully, Alfred turned to Kumajirou, who had been staying back the whole time all of this transpired, probably afraid of getting in the way, and afraid of getting blood-stained himself.

"Oi. Koopatroopa."

"... Yes?"

Alfred turned his attention fully on the bear. "When we left this morning to let Mattie sleep. Is that all he did?" He asked, knowing that Kumajirou had been the one to stay in Canada's company the entire time, refusing to unhinge himself from his master. Of course, save for right then, when he knew he was going to be of no help.

"No." He stated. Simply. No secrets kept with bears...

Maybe he could get all the information he needed from this little white animal. "What did Mattie do? In detail. Tell me," Alfred knelt in front of the polar bear, his arms draping his knees. "S'important." His demeanour lightened, as did his tone, "I'll give ya more of those delicious maple cookies."

Kumajirou's ear twitched before he spoke. Not that America had any doubt that the bear would tell him, but he didn't want to be _rude_ to Canada's bear. That was uncool.

Kumajirou didn't care about the cookies right then. Even though he was an indifferent bear, right then he cared more for that owner of his that was in the bathroom with the other man. But he answered America anyway, still looking at the door of the bathroom. "He woke up for a while..."

"... Uh huh...?"

"He wanted to read, and I got a book for him. It was a boring book."

"... Okay..."

"Then he went back to sleep."

America continued to hear the dial tone hum through the air quietly. "Did he wake up again after that...?"

Kumajirou tilted his head, looking away from the door and burying himself in recollection. "Yes. When I slept. He got up again. He used the phone."

Aha. "How long ago was this?"

"Half an hour before his nose started to bleed."

Interesting. America pressed, standing, "Who did he phone?"

"Um..." the bear memory was wavering now, clearly it meant that Kuma had fallen asleep again when Canada had been talking. "Um..."

"Come on. Who."

"Um..." The polar bear's head tilted and then it stopped. After a long moment he sighed, letting out a long whoosh of air. "I don't remember."

America wasn't pleased to hear that. He had a theory running in his head of what could have happened, but if he didn't have the bear or any witness confirm what had happened, he couldn't make a baseless assumption.

America's eyes narrowed at the phone then he strode over, hanging it up to silence the dial tone. But he was pretty damn sure about what he suspected.

"Really. Okay. Thanks. That's all I needed Koopatroopa."

He turned again to the bear. "Ready for maple cookies?" He encouraged with a toothy winning smile, the animosity directed towards the phone was gone.

"No... I'll wait out here for him."

America didn't argue the point when Kumajirou walked over to the bathroom door, and plopped down on his bottom and waited for the water to stop, and for England to return with Canada in tow. Some things were more important than maple cookies.

Alfred looked from the door, to the phone, to the hand smear on the wall, and sighed.

. . .

A red-scarved man walked steadily and slowly down a street, hands jammed in his pockets as he strode. People walked in wide arches around him, subconsciously maybe, at the dark and sinister aura that the man was seething off in velvety waves.

Ivan had to speak with Matthew. He had to speak with him _now_.

The doctor had said something so disgusting. So infuriating. So... so...

He narrowed his eyes.

He was disgusted with Canada. Disgusted. How could he _call_ himself a country? He was disgusted with the doctor too. With them both. He hated them both. He wanted to _talk_ to the pathetic excuse of a country. He needed to express his _loathing_ for all of... of... _that_.

... He was going to _speak_ with him. He was going to do it as soon as he saw him.

That might have been difficult though. England gave a strangled shout as Canada gave a strange sound and buckled backwards into him, fresh burbles of blood slowly ballooning from his nose. Alfred was mid-way through the door to the bathroom, quick-as-a-whip, to respond, when he froze midway.

The answering machine of the phone went off:

_"We ask that you cease and desist in phoning this number. If you continue this line of action, the authorities will be called to make an arrest for harassment and consistent insistence of fraud. We have never heard of a Matthew Williams, there is no Matthew Williams in our files, and we would request that you stop before we take serious legal actions. Thank you._"

The line died.

Canada choked in his father's arms, blood marring his pale face.

Well shit.

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**Author's Note:**

Yes! You aren't imagining it! This is the next chapter! I am going to start updating this regularly again. If you want to know what happened, let's say that I had a lot of things going on, and I refused to write a chapter unless I was sure I could write it well enough for you. That is the full reason for why there was a hiatus on the fanfiction.

Now I feel I can finish this up. The next few chapters will come out regularly.

This chapter is so huge. Hope it makes up for it.

And I'm aware that France did not appear in this chapter at all. There was no need and really... France just wasn't in the right place... He will appear in the next chapter for those of you who want to know. Though to what extent... Who knows.

This was way too much fun to write.

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**Chapter 12 Preview :** What do we do? What do we do! What's wrong! The phone? Russia... Blood. Godammit, where's Francis! We need _help_ dammit. _THIS ISN'T HELPING ANYTHING WORTH SHIT._

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Thanks for Reading!** Read and REVIEW **please! Every little bit helps and goes towards making me know what you guys like! **PLEASE**read and review! It helps me know that people are reading still, and especially now.

Your massive reviews for the last chapter FLOORED ME. SERIOUSLY. I was floored. Seriously floored. I love all of you.


	12. We know, Do Not Lie

**Disclaimer of this Chapter :** Oh everybody. Why do you gotta swear when angry? XD Oh well. XD

**Ownership :** I own nuffin. Well. I own stuff. Not Hetalia. (I have the 2nd season and an English plush now... XD Kesesese)

**Important Note :** ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down any nation in question. This is based off of characterizations and not the countries involved. Thank you very much.

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Oh my goodness it's chapter 12. That means I _must_ be updating regularly. Be warned, it's a bit long, not as long as the last chapter, and a lot happens. Quick-paced but not rushed. Just a lot happens. Huh. XD I like it a lot.

I ALSO GOT MORE FANART. SERIOUSLY ALL YOU GUYS ARE SO FREEKING AWESOME I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MYSELF.

THANK YOU SO MUCH Bbissocute and . They BOTH did fanart for Chapter 11. This is so awesome. So awesome. Check them out on my profile nao! Goooo. Comment and love their art. DO ITTT.****

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Chapter Twelve Summary : So. Much. Is. Happening. But the reality is unraveling slightly enough for them to see the truth.

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**- Chapter 12 - We know. Do Not Lie. - **

In mere seconds Canada was on the floor with his father. He had collapsed backward into the man, causing him to stumble. But he didn't drop his son. Instead, he took a firm grip on him and lead him safely to the floor.

His head now in his father's lap, Canada quaked badly. Blood was already starting to seep from his nose again, dripping down his cheek as he shook. Sheet white and greying, Matthew stopped making choking sounds and fell silent with a barely audible squeak.

America was only delayed a second or two – the answering machine hummed unnoticed in the background - before he rushed into the room, slamming onto his knees.

He came to an instant discovery, and paled nearly as white as Canada.

Canada was quaking as hard as he had been moments before, but he was struggling too, silence. His mouth worked, but no sound came forth.

Oh _fuck_.

"H... He's not _breathing_."

England didn't know what to do; he had frozen stiff with horror. His hands were hovering over Matthew, but he _didn't know what to do_. He knew he had training for this. He had seen people stop breathing many times in war, he had _dealt_ with it hundreds of times. But he was frozen stiff. Hands mere inches away from his son, he could only watch in agony as Matthew's lips start to turn blue.

America only paused for a second, before he wrenched Canada off of his father, put him flat on the ground, and placed his hands on his brother's chest. No time to think. No time to worry. No time. Just act.

He pushed his hands down, methodically counting to thirty before he pushed Matthew's head back, and tilted his chin to try to break open his airway.

England could only watch in horrified shock of what was happening inches from him. When Alfred had checked Canada's breathing and moved to pinch his nose, he had to look away. Not out of disgust of what America followed to do next, but he just couldn't watch. Canada was _suffocating_, and he could do not a thing.

America repeated the cycle at least three times. Re-adjusting Matthew's head, doing chest-compressions, and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

When Alfred had broke away from his brother for the third and final time, there was a sort of shocked gasp of air, then violent coughing as Canada turned to the side and heaved heavy deep-chested coughs.

Blood that had dribbled into his mouth from his fresh nosebleed spattered on the floor in a fine mist.

"Oh thank _god_!" England nearly wanted to cry, his head jerked back to Canada when the sounds of his gasping breaths rang out in the bathroom.

America grabbed Canada and pulled him into a sitting position, Matthew still gasping heavily once his coughing had ceased, and his eyes were defocused and he struggled slightly in panic.

"Mattie." Alfred spoke clearly, ignoring the fact his own face was bloody from the CPR. "Mattie. Listen to me. Mattie."

Canada gasped, and nodded weakly, his head lolling back for a second and his eyes flickering.

Alfred put on hand on the back of Matthew's head, supporting it.

"Mattie. Calm down. Breathe. You can breathe. Calm down."

"C-...c...a...n...c..."

"Mattie," America pressed. "Look at me. Come on. Deep breaths. Take a breath with me." He sucked in a breath through his nose, and then let it out cleanly through his mouth. "Come on Matt."

Canada's breathing remained erratic, but Alfred pressed on with single-minded determination. He focused hard and started to eventually guide Matthew to copy what he was doing. After a time - even though Matthew gave deep inhales with his mouth - his breathing started to even out.

After long tense minutes, Matthew's breathing had evened to an almost normal pace, though slightly deeper and shaky breaths, he was breathing.

England grabbed Canada from America, who did not argue, and held Matthew against his chest in a violent protective matter. He didn't say anything. Words were gone.

America was still kneeling and he looked at Canada, then to England. "He's probably going to pass out soon. We need to cap the nosebleed," he gestured to the fact that in the event of Canada's near suffocation, the nosebleed went unnoticed. "Then we need to take him back to the clinic."

"Why the clin-"

"Because right now? I don't think I'm sure I can trust anyone else I haven't dealt with _personally _yet. Clinic. The doctor has treated him before."

He stood.

"Come on. We have to go. Now."

. . .

Within a matter of minutes, Canada was in the back seat of the car with England, his head in his lap, and America was at the wheel of the car. Matthew was unconscious, America was silent, and England had said not much asides from low meaningless murmurings to his prone son.

Whenever they stopped at a traffic light, Alfred would quickly tear open one of the wet-naps he grabbed from a stack that was in the glove box, and began to furiously wipe the blood off his face and mouth. When he had finished, he tossed a few packets back at England, and Arthur began to gently wipe the blood away from Matthew's face.

His expression was soft, and concerned, and he delicately brushed away the blood that caked on, removing it to reveal Canada's pale flesh.

After tossing the, what seemed like, twentieth one in a bag in the back seat, he finally spoke. "Alfred, this... I..."

"Hmn?"

"... Is this going to get _worse_?" He gestured. "I-I... I mean... is this going to _end_? Whatever happened to it being the flu? Or... just a fever? Or... bloody _hell_," he ran a hand through his hair. "Why is it like this? Will it get _worse_?"

"I can't say that it won't," Alfred said, turning a corner with the car. "At this point, I really wish I could."

"What _is_ it? I almost wish we were back to when he was sporting a bloody livid fever! I almost wish we were back there! He was bleeding Alfred. For _no_ bloody reason! And-" He stopped. "-oh god."

Alfred jerked and looked back. "What?" Afraid for a moment that something _else_ was happening.

"Oh _god_ I did it again! I'm a terrible father! I did it again!"

"Wh... what? What did you do?"

"It's what I _didn't_ do. When I sent Matthew off to sleep again this morning... I saw blood; at the corner of his mouth. Just a little. I-I inquired and..." He took a breath. "... And bloody hell... He said that it was just his _gums _or something. But... I didn't notice the warning signs! There it was, right there! Again I fell into complete ignorance and acted like a dunce! I can't believe my fucking stupidity!"

"It... it's not your fault. And, I don't think it was his gums..." Alfred said quietly, focusing on the road. "I saw blood too, after you left to write that shopping list. There was just a little around his cheek and under his nose. He wiped it off by the time you came back. I only just barely noticed it..."

"And you didn't _say _anyth-" He cut himself off. No. No. Don't talk like that. Needless blame was exactly that. Needless. He was the one to blame here. Not Alfred. His brain chewed on the words, and he came to a startling revelation. "Under his _nose_?"

"Yeah... Whatever he had told you before? His gums or whatever the fuck he said? That was a lie," America said gravely. "I think he had just come out of the bathroom from getting rid of a bloody nose."

"Oh good god..."

Matthew had hidden a bloody nose from them? If he hid that, if he thought _that_ was important enough to hide, then what else was he hiding? What else was Canada keeping locked away?

"Oh... Matthew..." He adjusted some of the unconscious man's hair. "If only I knew what was wrong..."

"I think, I have a vague idea," Alfred said, looking at England through the rear-view mirror. "I... I don't want to say anything quite yet. But, it's a big reason why I don't want to take Matthew to a hospital. I want to be sure that there won't be a problem. Small-time stuff seems more trustworthy right now..."

"You have an _idea_ of what it is?" England straightened. "What? What is it?"

America shook his head. "Later. I'll tell you later. Remember, I'm not altogether sure myself."

"Alfred... if you have any sort of idea-"

"Later." America pressed.

England fell silent, leaning back in his seat and looking down at Matthew's face once more. "Well, whatever it is, I hope you're right."

A silence drew out before Alfred replied with, "Believe me, you don't want me to be fucking right."

. . .

The trip to the clinic had to be a thousand times easier than their previous journey there. From better roads to better weather, getting there was a breeze, and the traffic had agreed with them. Instead of harsh downfalls of rain, there was instead a sort of gracious period of sunshine that shone down upon them all.

It was gorgeous; and unnoticed.

Alfred pulled the car up to the clinic, noting how it was closed, but he could see lights on the inside. Not caring much for procedure or niceties, he exited the car and went around the side to where England was with Canada.

Opening the door, Alfred began to help England hoist his unconscious brother into his arms.

He took in all that was Matthew.

There was no more blood, but Canada's face was pale, breaths shallow, and the prickle of the once-gone fever was emanating in the distance. His skin looked clammy from where he stood, and the dark circles under his eyes, and the scraggly hair was making Matthew just seem so much more ill.

He adjusted him carefully, and then began to stride up to the doorway of the 'closed' clinic, England hot on his heels.

Arthur went forward first, and rung the buzzer that was beside the door, and then rapped on the glass.

They saw movement from inside, and the secretary, the same from that day when they had been there before, glanced from where she was, saw them, looked shocked, stood up and scurried off.

"O... Oi! Don't run off! Come back! Open this bloody door!" England rapped harder.

"Hey. She's probably getting the doctor. You know, I _am_ holding Matt right now."

"R... right," England calmed himself. "Right. Of course." His sweater vest was adjusted. "How foolish of me."

Alfred gave no response, and the secretary appeared again, but stayed off to the side, where she was before. Then the doctor appeared. It was definitely the same man as before. England's first instinct was to give a relieved smile upon seeing the man.

The man who, looking at them, flickered his eyes to Canada, then back to Alfred and England, shook his head, then turned around and walked back down the hallway.

It took a second for England's smile to wash away to a stunned silence.

"D... did he just...?" England pointed numbly through the glass door. "... just..."

America's face had darkened, and again, before he could say anything, Arthur turned and began to beat on the door viciously with his hand.

"Don't you bloody _ignore us_! Open the door this instant!" He banged harder when the secretary seemed to be called away from where she was standing in view. "Get the bloody fuck back here! I'm the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, I'm a bloody-fucking country and I'm _England_, now open this fuc-" He paused. Paling. "Shit."

They were supposed to keep their identities a secret.

However, this announcement of who he was, was exactly what drew the doctor back out into view. The man seemed hesitant, face a serious mask, and he stepped back into view, and he strode to the doorway. He unlocked the door, but his hand on it was displaying vehemently to Arthur to not dare try to shove it open. He opened it a minute crack.

"That's true, isn't it?"

England faltered. "... N-... n... well. Yes. Fuck. YES. Yes I'm very well bloody England; or better known to _you_ as Great Britain, or the United Kingdom."

The doctor's face was strained, forced to be unchanging. He glanced at America, then back at England.

"Go home, please, sir," he tagged. "We're closed."

Embarrassment was replaced by bubbling fury. "_Go home!_ We drove out all this way with Matthew! We _need_ to see you! We aren't very well going fucking _home_. Can't you _see_ him!"

"I can a-"

America spoke, coldly. "If you don't move aside right now I'm going to kick down the door. Or I'll just tell my government officials that you denied entry to three countries, one of which being the United States of America."

"..."

"_Alfred_," England hissed. "There is no need to-"

"You're a country too? You're _all_ countries?" The mask was falling away, and he was starting to look somewhat... frightened? Not at all malicious as Arthur thought he was being. "I've already _met_ one of you. That tall man, he introduced himself as Russia."

The fading pallor on the doctor told England exactly what Ivan could've done.

He put a hand to his face. "Oh bloody hell. Just _what_ did Ivan do...? I'm sorry. Really. I am. But he has nothing to _do_ with us," he gestured between themselves. "If you're afraid of him doing... whatever it was he did... again, then you can be assured that one, it won't happen, and two, we won't _let_ it happen."

Right on the nose. The doctor looked positively terrified.

"Let us in."

"But-"

"_Let us in. Now._" America repeated harshly. "Right now, I don't give a fuck about what Ivan did. But my brother needs fucking _help_, and you're the only option we've _got_ right now!"

The man's hand remained firm where it was.

Alfred took a threatening step forward.

"O... Okay!"

He stepped away from the door and he let it be pushed open by the self-proclaimed England, and the threatened America.

"I... I... I'm not sure if-"

"Look," America said tersely. "Forget about what we are. I don't care if you know. But you should focus on your _job_, what you chose to _do_. Now don't tell me you can look at the person in my arms and not care."

Biting his lip, the doctor swallowed, and he took a breath. He let it out and nodded. "This way. Please."

He gestured to the secretary to lock the door, and told her to not unlock it for anyone, under any circumstances.

He led them to an examination room and Matthew was deposited onto one of the tables. The doctor, seeming to be a bit calmer and more collected than he was before, turned to Alfred and Arthur.

"You can wait in the waiting room."

"No. I don't think so." America perched himself in one of the chairs. "I'll stay here. Thanks."

The doctor swallowed, then he nodded, turning to Canada.

America turned to his father, who put up his hands in resignation. "I... You don't have to ask me. I don't think my heart can take it. I'll be in the waiting room."

. . .

Canada turned over onto his side, feeling entirely uncomfortable. Like he was lying on reclined leather seat lined with parchment paper. He shifted again, hearing the creak of paper and leather and it confused him. He was fairly certain that his own bed was far more comfortable than this. He had spent a few numbers of dollars on spoiling himself on soft and warm sheets, a soft but not-too-soft bed, and a comfortably stiff pillow. But this was far away from that. It was not his bed that he was used to melting like butter into.

He shifted and felt another creak.

With a groan that he didn't know he had been holding, Canada opened his eyes and began to push himself partway up.

His head span but he blinked blindly around the strange white room that he was in. He took in the rough shapes of wooden cabinets with glass windows in the doors, of a clean countertop and sink. He saw some glass containers with tongue depressors and cotton swabs. As well as, on the other side, various objects hanging from the wall. But he was too out of it to discern, or care, what they were.

Groping around, he couldn't find his glasses. Maybe he was already wearing them?

He paused and reached to touch his face.

He was met with something highly unusual. He didn't know why he didn't notice it until just then. But cupping his nose and mouth entirely, was a thick plastic dome. His fingers ran along it puzzlingly, and he found a hose that dangled from the front of it. The end of which went off the bed.

Huh...?

Not thinking, he looped his fine fingers into the straps that fastened around the back of his head, and he pulled the device up and over and deposited it beside him.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. What happened? Why did his mind feel all blurry? Did it maybe have something to do with that gas mask he had on? Where was he? Where was everyone else? Why was he _here_?

Why did he feel like he had run five marathons, one after another, only to have ended up being the a survivor of a near-drowning.

Breath short, hand shaking, Canada rubbed a hand worriedly through his hair. It felt greasy and damp, and he absently told himself that he desperately needed to wash it. But that thought faded away like all the others.

The door off to the side of him began to open slowly, but it went much quicker when the figure that opened the door saw that Matthew was sitting up on the examination bed.

Matthew only just noticed the strange man entering the room, and surprisingly let him be pushed back down to lie upon the parchment and leather once more. He felt too weak and bleary to argue.

"Why is this...?" The man mumbled to himself. Canada could see out of the corner of his eye that he was picking up the mask that had been put to the side.

It was fitted back around his head, tightened, and the man straightened. "... There."

Breathing felt easier.

Slowly, his mind began to clear as if he woke from a very bad dream, and reality focused around him.

"What happened...?" He found himself first asking, looking at the fluorescent light on the white ceiling. His voice was muffled, but the man seemed to understand him well enough.

"You passed out," the man said, carefully, "At your home. Your brother and father brought you here."

Canada's eyebrows crinkled and he spoke again. "Passed out?"

Sounds of flipping paper, the man had obviously regarded the clipboard in his hand. "They say that you had a vicious nosebleed before suffering respiratory arrest." A pause. "You stopped breathing."

Memory hit him like bricks, his eyes widened, and he looked at the man. Memories of his lungs feeling like they no longer worked, like they were frozen in his chest, felt almost as real as the experience. He had vivid recollections of the tendrils of pain spreading from his chest as he couldn't even take a breath to ease the stinging high-pitched ring that invaded all his senses.

Perhaps that was because he stopped breathing, holding his breath, at the memory.

"Breathe. Take a breath. Breathe," he was suddenly urged, the man's hand on his shoulder.

Canada let go of the breath he didn't know he was holding, and sucked in a mouthful of air, letting it out through his nose.

"Oh god..." He put his hands on his head. "England... America... France... How could I do this to them?"

The doctor faltered. "U-uh... Don't worry about them. They'll be glad to know you're stabilized."

"No... no..." He ran his hands in his hair again, his elbows sticking upward as his hands tightened there. His breathing hitched. "This shouldn't be happening..."

"Please take calm breaths," the doctor urged, gently trying to urge Matthew's arms down. "In and out. It is alright. Everything is fine."

Canada continued on like he wasn't there. "Things like this just aren't supposed to _happen_."

How could he? How could he? He was already such a problem to his family. He couldn't believe that the day this all started, the day of that meeting, he had been thinking forlornly about the lack of attention he got, how he may have been _hoping_ that they paid attention to him more than once or twice in a week.

How could he have thought that?

How could he be so _selfish_.

And look what was happening now, he certainly had their attention. He had their undivided attention. But he felt more like the person who had gotten attention by doing some horrible stunt than someone who deserved it.

"Nnmg..." Canada pressed his hands to his eyes and he saw stars. "They need to go home," he rasped. "They can't stay here."

"_Please_. Please..." A hesitant pause. "... Mr. Williams. Please calm down. Everything is alright."

"No..." he croaked. "No it's not."

"Please. Take calm breaths. You're hyperventilating."

Ignoring the stinging hot tendrils of liquid that streamed from the corner of his eyes, he shook his head. "T-they need to go home..." he pleaded, voice tight.

He heard the sound of the man getting up from the stool he must have perched himself on before, and the door opening and shutting again.

Good. Good. If he left that was one less person that'd have to deal with him...

The door opened again, Matthew hoped it wouldn't. He wouldn't have minded having stayed in there for a good long while without anyone coming in. Maybe if that'd happen, he would have been eventually forgotten and his family could go back to focusing on what they _needed_ to focus on and go back home.

"Matthew," an English voice came to Canada's ears first.

Footsteps invaded his hearing next and the person, who was decidedly England, one of the last people he wanted to see, was right next to him.

"Matt..." Came from the doorway, but he didn't hear his brother approach.

"Come on lad," England quietly urged to him, his voice low and careful. "Come on now, pull your hands away. Take good deep breaths..."

A cool-feeling hand took a hold of one of his and was trying to pry his hand away without exerting too much effort on the task. It relented and let go when his hands did not so much as budge, and when it became clear that they'd have to be forced away.

"Alright Matthew," England said, oddly. His voice sounded strained and stressed beyond the quiet tone. It was altogether unusual to hear. His father just didn't... speak like that.

Canada took it the completely wrong way, and assumed it was stress and frustration that the ordeal wasn't over, and that he had to keep on dealing with his son. Canada shook at the thought and he tried to rasp out between his ever-heaving gasps that he was sorry.

Having only barely caught it, Arthur replied quickly. "No! No. Don't be _sorry_. I'm bloody-well sorry."

"Me too!" Came Alfred's voice from the doorway.

"Come now. Matthew... You're going to make yourself pass out. That won't do you much good if you do that." The hand was on his shoulder now. "Come come..."

He was eased up, much to his surprise, the weight on his examination-bed shifted and he felt himself being pulled into another, very warm, person: someone who was shorter, but slightly broader, a person that smelt like tea and fresh rain.

A hand was against the back of his head, the other was across his back as he was warmly held there.

Canada couldn't even object to the fact that his hair was gross, and England shouldn't touch it at all because he was long over-due for a proper bath. He couldn't because the touch of familial warmth brought out something he had no idea was simmering.

He burst out in uncontrollable sobs.

His hands unwound from his face and he was gripping onto England in a shaky weak grip.

"A-ah... It's alright Matthew... It's alright. I know," his father tried to encourage. "You've been through quite a lot. We all have. It's _alright_ Matthew. It's alright."

Canada kept clinging, and sobbing.

"Let it all out. You need to. Can't leave it all pent up," Arthur was attempting a slight tone of humour in his voice, trying an encouraging tone. "Believe me, sometimes I want to cry when I've only spent a half an hour with your self-proclaimed 'papa'..."

He felt the hand in his hair trying to smooth it down, and the hand on his back patting him carefully, then wrapping him in a protective hug.

They remained that way for a number of minutes. Despite all of Canada's inner-ranting that he didn't want any more of this attention. He didn't _want_ to be coddled and focused on anymore. He did want it. He wanted it desperately. He _needed_ it. Every second of England staying there, holding him, felt like an eternity, and he dreaded when it would end regardless.

Arthur let him cry as hard as he wanted, but also tried to keep him breathing evenly as possible.

It felt like infinity before Canada felt his thoughts clearing, the tears quelling, his breaths evening. He still made some sounds, breathing hiccupping after ever few breaths or so. But the resounding sobs of releasing stress were gone.

"There... There... That's better, eh?" England spoke again after a long time. "I have a feeling you don't get much of a chance to do that often. Which is a shame. I will even admit it's nice to have a _good cry_. Especially when Francis had been involved. Though that usually involves me yelling at him first..." Arthur trailed.

Canada's face was still buried were it was against his father, but he let loose a light laugh.

Arthur hummed and Matthew could feel it as a rumble in the man's chest. A hand continued rubbing up and down his back.

More time passed and eventually, still suffering the after-effects of his sobbing, Matthew pushed away from his father and wobbly sat upright, blinking at the brightness of the room.

He was surprised to see that the hand that was on his back was _not_ England's. America had at some point - when, Canada didn't know - sat down beside them and had been the one distributing the gentle comfort.

Alfred's hand remained on Matthew's back. "Are you good now, Mattie?" He asked, leaning to look at his brother better.

"Of course he's not _good_," England said with a hard-to-miss tone of annoyance. The Englishman's eyes raked across his son.

The breathing apparatus was heart-wrenching.

"Oi," Alfred argued. "Not speakin' to you ol' Iggster." He turned back to Matthew. "You feel better Mattie? You don't have to stop on account of us..."

"N-no... I... I'm good," Matthew managed. "... I'm good ..."

Alfred hummed and he tugged his wavering brother so that he was leaning against him, head on his shoulder.

"S'fine Matt." He then smirked. "Mattie-Matt-Matt."

"... Hey..." Canada half-whined. "Don't call me that."

"Why not? Matt-Matt-Matt."

Matthew gave another light laugh.

America let sighed in relief. He had originally wanted to burst into the room in relieved excitement that Matthew was okay. That he was awake. But he didn't. Somehow he knew that the overreaction wasn't going to help things. So he restrained himself. It seemed that England had too.

He was relieved. He was happy to see his brother awake and breathing. Despite the mask clinging to his face making him look sicker than before, Alfred was just glad that he could elicit some sound of amusement, and his brother didn't look like he was about to explode from the nose or stop breathing altogether.

He was relieved... But he knew there was something they couldn't avoid.

Carefully, with his hand on Canada's upper-arm, he spoke.

"Mattie... We have to talk to you about something. I... I know it's not the best _time_, and you're stressed enough as it is. But this is unavoidable."

Canada looked at his brother the best he could from how he was against him. Talk to him...? About what? Did the doctor find something? Was he going to be given the prognosis, and was it not good?

"... Okay ..."

England had straightened. He knew what it was that Alfred wanted to talk about. Or at the very least, he assumed he knew what America wanted to talk about. It was about whatever it was that Alfred found out. Something that he hoped wasn't true, but was sure was true nevertheless. As so far, England hadn't delved too deep, he was looking at and dealing with the situation on the surface. He was more focused on Matthew personally to pick up any other details...

Alfred gestured to the doctor.

"This is private. Is there a buzzer or something I can use if we desperately need you?"

The doctor paused, nodded, and gestured.

"Okay. Good. Leave please."

With a last look of apology to Matthew, the doctor turned and left.

. . .

Matthew could feel dread pricking at the back of his spine, but he attempted to make it not show on his face. England was still sitting beside him, his arm now the one around his shoulders instead of Alfred's. Canada was supported by him, while his brother sat on a stool in front of the two of them.

But it wasn't the two of them he wanted to talk to. It was Canada.

Canada looked at Alfred warily, he had his glasses now, so he could see the serious expression his brother was making, as well as the rapid thoughts that must have been going through his mind before he was going to speak.

"Mattie..." He started. Then stopped. "... Matthew. I gotta talk to you about something. Something important."

"... Yes...?"

"Now... This is a sensitive subject, at least, I am going to make the assumption that it is. But please, answer me as best and as _truthfully_," he emphasized, "as possible. This is important."

"Okay..."

"I mean it Matt. You can't lie to us. I don't care how much it might hurt you to admit to anything. But you have to tell us the _truth_."

"... Okay..."

"Matt."

Canada felt his chest tighten. Just what were they going to ask him about? He breathed then he nodded. "I swear Al. I swear. I won't lie to either of you."

"Good." America put his hands on his thighs and sighed. "Okay. So. Question numero uno."

Matthew tensed.

"Did you ever manage to get in contact with your government since the last time _we_ know you've phoned them."

What? His government? Why was he asking about his _government_? That wasn't relevant, was it? He lied without thinking. "O-oh. Um... I haven't found the time to talk to them again..."

"Matt." Alfred grit.

"Really. I swear. I haven't found the ti-"

He was cut off. "You're lying. And I know you are." He spoke before Matthew could refute. "Know how I know? Because there have been two occasions Matt," he held up two fingers, "two. Two occasions where I can safely say that _today_ you used the phone."

"But that-"

"-AND," Alfred said, "While we were waiting for the doctor to treat you, I had gone outside and phoned your little Koopatroopa bear. He checked the phone memory for me. He's very cooperative when he wants to be, you know."

Canada paled.

England muttered, his hand firm on Canada's arm. "Matthew. No avoiding it. Best speak up."

"A... alright," Matthew relented. "I had tried both times to phone my government back. Since they never _did_ call me back. I just wanted to be sure a-"

"- You're lying again."

"I-I'm not lying."

"Mattie. I'm your brother. We used to share the same bedroom, heck, the same bunk bed. Sometimes you invite me over and I stay for the night. I've known you for _all _of my life, pretty much, and believe me, I can tell when you're lying."

"I.. I'm..."

"Mattie... I don't think your exchanges with your fucking government are as easy as you're trying to make it sound like. Why do I have the feeling that they never promised to phone you back at all? And why else would you be trying to phone them back so feverishly?"

"I..."

"Matt. Is there something wrong with you and your government?"

England's hand tensed. It seemed that he was starting to get the picture that Alfred was laying out, but Matthew was still in the dark, focusing more on diverting Alfred away from the topic or the real answer rather than pay attention to the implications.

"N... no... they're..."

Alfred sighed, pinching his nose. "You know, you said you promised to not lie Mattie. But, this helps me either way. I'm sure that dear ol' 'Dad' can tell when you're lying too."

"..."

"Matt. Please. I can tell it all to you for you, if you want. I think I have a pretty good idea what's going on, and I'll say it anyway, even if you don't." His voice was rising from the soft interrogation it had been before. A angry tick lingered in the back of his tone and it was being poorly restrained in it's beginnings.

Canada let out a sigh of air. "O... Okay. Fine. No. No it _hasn't_ be all too great between me and my government recently."

"_Matthew_," England said, shocked. Hearing it from his son was all the more shocking.

"What? It's true... It's not bad! I swear! I mean, it's not all rosy and perfect, but it's not _bad_. It's not terrible or anything. I mean, I just don't talk to them enough and there's not a lot of communication that goes between us. Everything goes on fine, regardless. It's fine."

That was the truth. Alfred could see it. Canada believed that to be true, or told himself enough times to make himself believe it to be true.

"So how much is 'not a lot of communication'?"

"... Uh..."

"The last time they tried to contact _you_ was the morning after you were brought here in the first place. But before that. How long? Days? Weeks? Months?"

England glanced at Matthew. That was the last time? His own government hadn't stopped sending _him_ messages since he didn't come back after the meeting. They were persistently sending him notes and information because they knew he was going to be away. But Canada only received the one?

"How many," Arthur encouraged.

"W-well... If you count the paperwork... Then..."

"A few months ago?" Alfred supplied.

Matthew froze, swallowed, hung his head, and nodded quietly.

"Oh, Matthew_…_" It wasn't accusation coming from his father, rather, it was shock.

"Matt..." Alfred sighed. "I know, okay? I know. It's obvious. I think it's obvious to everyone. Your government hasn't been keeping you in the loop about _anything_. I bet hearing you had a phone call came to you like a shock, didn't it?" He paused, thinking. "And I'm sorry Matt, but I accidently saw your paperwork, and I saw the last date. It was months ago, Matt. Months. And that's the stuff that is usually picked up right away and it wasn't even _real_ paperwork."

"I... I..."

England's mouth felt dry and he turned his son to face him. "Is this all _true_? Are they completely neglecting you?'

"It's true, England," America said for Canada. "It's completely _fucking_ true."

Canada did not say a thing.

Alfred addressed England, tone very slightly biting. "This is the problem. You know how before you were saying that you couldn't possibly think of what it was? That it couldn't be a country issue, because we'd have heard about it, and it was hard to believe it was a physical ailment?"

England said, "Yes," with apprehension.

"This is it. It's neither of those things. It's his government."

"W-what? _ His government_? Are you bloody joking? If there was something wrong with his government, wouldn't that affect his entire _country_?" England shook his head. "No. It's not that."

"Did you listen to my questions to him _before_?" Alfred pressed. "Don't you get it? His government, for whatever reason, _isn't contacting Matthew_. And this, over time, is making him _sick_."

"That's... I've gone a long time before myself without much contact, and I didn't feel ill."

"That's because you still had some _connection_. It's like Matthew's being cut-off! He barely receives any calls, and I assure you, if you had called your own government when you weren't in direct contact, you'd have gotten through pretty fucking quickly. This isn't a matter of... how much he's spoken with. It's like the ties _with_ them are breaking. They didn't even know who he was when he personally phoned them. Don't tell me that doesn't _mean _something."

England sat back, paling.

"Matt. You said, a while ago. You said, when we were here before, the doctor commented on how thin you were. You told me that you had been loosing weight recently." His tone was hitching higher, agitation was leaking and panic was lacing his words. "Tell me, has it been within the period of time that your government hadn't even contacted or made _reference_ to you? Do you think that has _anything_ to"

"I... I..."

"Have you felt sick before? Bloody noses before? Have you had headaches or maybe just a mild fever? Are you _used_ to feeling like crap all the time so it takes you proverbially being hit by a truck to make you notice now? Huh? When _has_ the last _real_ conversation happened? Have you even _seen_ your Boss? When have you last been involved in the country that you are?"

"A-al..."

"Alfred, _please_. I can see where you're getting at, but this is mostly baseless _assumptions_... You don't have any pro-"

"And _why_," Alfred pressed, his voice straining, England was drowned out and away. "Haven't you _told us about this_! Why would you keep it a secret? Why haven't you spoken to anyone? Is something wrong with us? Did we do something _wrong_? Are we not good enough to help you? Mattie... You should have told us right away! You should have brought it up in a meeting. This isn't _good_ Matthew. This isn't something you can _ignore_ and hope it goes away! You're too goddamn nice for your own fucking _good_!"

Canada struggled with words that wouldn't come.

"I don't understand it! I thought we were _brothers_! I thought we had this un-written pact that you could _count_ on me when it mattered! I'm pretty goddamn sure all of us would help. If. you. just. _said_. SOMETHING. God-fucking-DAMMIT Matthew!"

"ALFRED."

America jeered to a stop.

Canada was leaning over, hand on his chest, since his mouth was covered, and the other was wrapped around his middle. He was very pale.

Tears streamed from Canada's eyes, "I… I'm sorry… I… I.. I d-didn't know… I… I didn't know… I'm sorry…"

England's hands were tight on Matthew's shoulders.

America's expression fell. "… Oh god Matt I-"

. . .

France walked stiffly back to his son's home. His back was ridged and he walked in a careful step. He counted them, tried to walk even between the grooves of the sidewalk, and he focused on nothing but counting the pattern his feet made against the pavement.

He was trying to evacuate all thoughts on the aura that was following him. On the man that was following him darkly. His mind wandered to the hard steps of the boots on the pavement behind him, echoing in the empty neighbourhood streets.

Francis swallowed and he glanced back slightly, clearing his throat with a nervous laugh. "So... you... ah... want to speak to mon petite?"

"Matvey. Yes."

"Aha... And you need to do it... now?"

The aura blackened. "Yes."

"But mon mignon is sick, non? I think 'e needs to get as much rest as 'e can. That is why I left for a little while, to let 'im rest without me bothering 'im."

"I do not care."

France shuddered and went back to counting his steps. One two, one two, one two, one two, one two th- augh damnit.

He decided to forget that, and focused souly on the horizon and watched clouds aimlessly float around in the distance. He focused on that for quite some time without thought or purpose as he walked rather aimlessly despite that he was supposed to be leading the man to Matthew's. He still wasn't sure if he really wanted to _do_ that, so he deliberated in his decision of holding off their arrival.

His decision was coming for him.

"When are we going to go to Matvey's? Unless you like taking the scenic route, da? You are wasting my precious time."

"I... Surely it isn't that important... I will lead you straight there," he turned to a corner that lead more directly. No way in hell he was going to argue with Russia when he was pretty obviously threatening something if he did otherwise. "Surely it can wai-"

"It cannot."

Soon enough, they stopped at the door of Matthew's home, oddly the lights were all off in the house, and the car was gone. Confused, France knocked on the door, curious to see if anyone was home.

"That is strange... Per'aps L'Angleterre and L'Amerique 'ave left to get something to eat. Ah... per'aps I should 'ave gone 'ome quicker then. Waste money on deplorable take out food..." He made a face.

Russia leaned over and picked up a leaflet of paper that was facedown on the ground. It appeared to have been previously taped to the door, if the wind hadn't picked it up and taken away.

He skimmed it over.

"Stupid... so stupid..."

France turned. "What, surely you don't like take-out food. I saw you as a man that at least appreciated hand-made meals."

"Not that," Russia gestured and shoved the paper in France's hands, "This. Read it, da? And stop talking about food."

"..." Well wasn't he a touchy fellow.

France unfolded the note and he glanced it over. He froze.

_France, sorry if my writing is all a mess, but I really don't have too much time to write this. Matthew has collapsed. He just had a horrific nosebleed and stopped breathing for a short period of time. Rest assured, he's breathing now, America resuscitated him, but we're rushing him to the clinic we went to before. If you need us, you know my and Alfred's cell phone numbers. Please, if you do come to the clinic, contain yourself. From, England_

_PS. WHERE THE BLOODY FUCK ARE YOU, YOU FUCKING FROG._

France looked at the note in horror.

"Ah." Russia said simply. "I suppose then I have to wait to speak with Matvey."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Woo Hoo. Another chapter. Yep. A lot happened. But it was good. Just how I wanted it. Very fun to write. For sure. Intense America is intense. Russia is scary, da?

And man, you guys... The reviews (of which I hit 300) and the fanart... Seriously. This is awesome. I never expected something as silly as this fanfiction would elict anything REMOTELY close to this.

Thanks. So. MUCH.

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**Chapter 13 Preview :** Good assumptions that could be wrong. What the doctor had done that had angered Russia so won't sit very well with England and America. With so much infront of them... They still don't have an answer. And one thing is clear : They can't wait for one.

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Thanks for Reading!** Read and REVIEW **please! Every little bit helps and goes towards making me know what you guys like! **PLEASE **read and review! It helps me know that people are reading still, and especially now.

YAYGhsdhsahdasd 300 reviews. I love you.


	13. Whimsical, Wonderful, Spectacular Me

**Disclaimer of this Chapter :** Alfred. Bad. Stop swearing. XD Oh well.

**Ownership :** I own nuffin. Well. I own stuff. Not Hetalia. I got the first two seasons of Hetalia though! Oooo. But that does not mean I made it. Saddd...

**Important Note :** ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down any nation in question. This is based off of characterizations and not the countries involved. Thank you very much.

This chapter features awesome new beta-reader Ophelion. Who is awesome. So very awesome. I thank her a lot. You should suffer a lot less now.

Thank you!

(And, I had originally tried to thank ephemeralDELUSiON for a fanart last chapter, but her name disappeared. I'll do it again.)

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**Chapter Thirteen Summary :** What has to be said isn't so black and white... Who's side to take? Russia's? Or not?

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**- Chapter 13 - Whimsical, Wonderful, Spectacular Me**

France was running like he never ran before. They didn't have a car that he could use, so he had to high-tail it straight to the nearest bus stop. He was aware that Russia seemed to be following after him, but he didn't care about that quite yet. He was also unaware on how deeply he'd regretted the decision to just let him follow.

When France had found the note, he was in a stunned state of horror for a number of seconds before Russia snapped him out of it. A second or two passed beyond that, and he all but flung himself in the house and up the stairs. He rocketed to Matthew's bedroom and came across the horrible scene of blood smeared on the walls the bed and exaggeratedly _everything_ in his mind.

He had panicked, dancing on the spot for a few seconds before he turned to begin his sprint to the nearest form of transportation; not even noticing the whine that Kumajirou gave him when he hurried past him and straight out the door.

That's when Russia followed him; at a calm jogging pace, puffing slowly as if he was preparing for some marathon later. He easily kept up with France's strides.

"I have a suggestion for you..." he tried to say, looking somewhat amused with the whole situation, but still having this underlying anger that was tainting his whole demeanor.

"I 'ave no time to talk or 'ear your stupid suggestion!" France snapped, puffing as he turned around a corner.

"Oh? I believe you do have time to listen to my suggestion, you stupid country," Russia said calmly, still matching his strides with relative ease. "It would be best if you d-"

"Shut up! I do not want to 'ear it!" France suddenly snapped, and he came to a halt to glare at Russia. "Go. Away. Go away. You are not needed. You only want to do something stupid! I 'ave no patience for you. Go. Away. Leave my son alone, 'e does not deserve to 'ave someone like _you_ near 'im!"

Russia had stopped too, listening to France. "... Oh...?'

"Oui! I never liked you to be with us from the beginning, let me be _clear_, Russia. I did not want you in the car with us. I did not want you _near_ mon petite. Especially after what you did to his _arm_," France gestured.

He then glared, honestly mad; he put a hand on Russia's shoulder and gave a dismissive shove. "Go. 'OME," His accent as thick as ever.

Russia caught that hand and he pulled Francis toward him with a very sharp and harsh tug.

France 'eeped' appropriately, and when he looked suitably terrified, Russia drew the man closer with a dark smirk.

"Now. I am trying to give you advice, da? Is that not what I am trying to do for you?" Russia inquired, holding France's arm in a tight, but not painful, grip. "I think you need to revise your statement earlier, do you not?" He tilted his head.

"I... I... I do not need to 'ear it!" France started to wiggle his wrist. "I cannot. I need to get to Mathieu! 'e is the most important. A-a-and... I cannot trust _you_."

The jerk on his hand made him shut up.

"I was going to suggest, stupid France, that you call a taxi to come and pick you up, da? I do not think you even know where the buses go, do you not?"

France faltered, but mostly at the highly intimidating aura the man was holding him in place with. It seemed that maybe he didn't even hear the tall Russian man. Maybe he naturally, ah, what did America call it? His natural 'cheese eating surrender monkey' nature was at play.

Though, to Russia's immense astonishment, Francis _yanked_ his hand out of Ivan's grasp. He rubbed his wrist irritably, but only flipped open his own cellphone to do just as the man said – order a taxi.

Russia was surprised. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, really, from the Frenchman. He wasn't exactly sure what he _really_ had thought would happen. So he kept quiet, silently surprised at the outward sharpness that Francis still possessed as he angrily phoned for a taxi ASAP and emphasized viciously that it should be their number-one priority.

Ivan just watched. Not sure if he should be amused or not. He remained neutral, and remained sure that he was going to be able to _talk_ with Matthew very soon...

... In the clinic or not.

Ignoring Russia from then on was France's biggest mistake.

. . .

England didn't know what to do with himself anymore. His stress was at a peak and he was aimlessly skimming through his cellphone messages from his government officials. He _wished_ that he had the time to leave and get his laptop computer so that he could work on what he needed to do right then and there, but he was afraid of so much as leaving the waiting room to take a piss, let alone go fetch a bloody _computer_.

He sighed, rubbing his forehead with his hand and put down the phone. He felt of no use whatsoever. He was sure that America, who was sitting beside him and bouncing his knees like he was trying to make the floor shake, was in the very same position as him : feeling he has to stay, but feeling useless.

Alfred had a gloved hand under his chin and his elbow on the armrest. His leg puttered quickly, bouncing on the ball of his foot in an anxious manner. He stared absently forward.

It took a while. It took a long while, but he finally uttered.

"I'm _really_ bored."

England sighed, crossed his legs the other way and picked up his phone again to find that his response had already been replied to.

"I mean, I'm, like, _really_ bored."

Arthur responded the best he could to the message, but he was no _good_ at this text-messaging business. The buttons were so small! It was hard to type with just his thumbs. He preferred the old days of type-writers that clicked down with such a satisfying 'clank', or when pigeons were still in good use... God, he missed those days. Instant messaging was a pain in the arse because it was _instant_ and thus he felt responsible for responding just as quickly. It was an annoyance.

"I'm so bored. I could _die_," Alfred said then, louder, because Arthur had either never heard him, or chose to ignore him completely.

"Mmn," England finally said, humming as he sent the text, and contemplated turning the ruddy thing off.

"Hello? Did ya hear me?"

Arthur glanced over at him briefly, then looked away. And then he realized that America had _said_ something, had looked expectant, so he looked back. "What? Sorry. What? I didn't hear what you said."

"I said, I'm bored."

Ah. Typical. How could he _ever_ have assumed it was something _pertinent_ to the situation? Oh _god_. He was _bored_. Better sound the alarms and called the fire brigade. Shit was going _down_. Oh woo _hoo_.

Like he gave a fuck.

"That has little to do with me. Go find something to do then, if you're really so bored you have to inform me."

Alfred's cheeks puffed irritably. "Come on Iggy-"

"I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, and I will bless you with telling you once more, do _not_ call me that; lest you want to be hoisted on your own bloody flag pole. Naked." He gritted. He was not in the mood.

"Woah. Woah. Geeze. Give it a rest, man. No reason to get your panties in a bunch." He paused. "Speaking of panties-"

Oh good _god_. What in the name that was all good and English did America get reminded of when he thought of _panties_?

"- Where _is_ France anyway."

England paused. ... Oh. Well. Okay. That made sense.

"Francis? I have no bloody clue. I left him a note, remember?"

"Why didn't you just text him...?"

"Because I don't trust ruddy technology like this. If I can leave a note, I will leave a note." He took a breath and went back to answering his son's question. "As to _where_ Francis is, I can only guess a whore-house or a group of very unfortunate people had been accosted by him."

America's nose twitched in disgust.

"I'd best not think about it. He bloody damn well better get his French arse here as soon as possible. Else I'm going to flay that snail-slurper and serve him during High Tea."

"... Yeah..."

And so silence fell again. America's leg went back to drumming, and England was responding to what seemed to be text message after text message after _text message_. It was exhausting.

Silence fell for a long time afterward. At some point, America had pulled out his own phone, and appeared to be doing the same as him, but his fingers danced across the screen like lightning and didn't seem to be hindered by the fact that the buttons were far too small to be even remotely considered useful. So they sat there; in silence. Waiting.

Silence didn't last for long as there was a heavy knock on the glass of the clinic door. The secretary jumped, took one look at the people behind it, then scurried away looking rather terrified. She was up and out of view before either of the two occupants of the waiting room so much as noticed.

America and England twisted in their seats, and were surprised with their discovery.

France and Russia were standing there, side by side, at the doorway. France, they could understand, but _Russia_ was standing there too, and he was looking vaguely malicious.

America stood up sharply and strode to the door. Crossing his arms, he stood in front of it, and spoke in a voice that he hoped could be heard through the glass.

"Hey. What the hell are you doing here?" He said, obviously addressing the much taller man. "Go away."

Russia just smiled, pointed to his ear and shook his head.

Anger ticked. "Oi! I said. Get the fuck out of here! I don't want to have to deal with _your_ shit, especially after what I heard you did to the fucking doctor. I'm not _stupid_." He glanced at France. "Unlike _some people_."

France seemed to flinch.

Again, Russia just shrugged, looked confused but _very_ amused with himself, and pointed to his ear again, as if America _was_ too stupid to understand the gesture. He then followed it by making a 'jabbering' motion with his hand, and shook his head.

"Oh fuck off. You can hear me! GO AWAY."

Again, he just... shook his head, and pointed _annoyingly_ at his ear.

Angry, America twisted the keys in the lock on the clinic door, opened it a fraction, and took a breath to _yell_ at him to get the fuck out of their vicinity, when Russia's massive gloved hand took a hold of the door's edge and shoved it open.

With one hand pressed against the glass, keeping it open forcefully, he smiled down at America who was gaping at him. "You know, Amerika, you say you are not stupid, but I have reason to doubt that, da? Silly Alfred," he said the man's personal name with a sort of strange tone, "You are so stupid."

France seemed oblivious to it all; he ran inside the clinic and grabbed the nearest thing he could – England's shoulders.

"Mon petite! Where is my son! Where is Mathieu? I 'ad read ze note and I saw that 'e was not zere and I could only think of ze most _terrible_ things. Oh... Oh... Mon petite! I saw ze _blood_ on ze sheets and ze walls, and... Mon mignon! Is 'e okay!"

"W... w... _get your hands off of me_," England slapped them away. "Not _now_ Francis! What is he here for! Why did you _bring him here!_"

He walked past the blubbering man and straight to where America and Russia were having a glaring match with the clinic door wide open.

"Why are _you_ here?" He accused violently.

Russia turned his smiling black aura onto England. "Because. I wish to speak to Matvey."

"Oh. Oh no. If it is going to be anything like how you 'spoke' to the doctor, then I'd kindly like to ask you to jump off a cliff. Thank you," he suggested tersely. "How about you go do that and close the door? You're letting in a _draft,_" England pressed.

It was a nice day. The sun was out. The air was warm. The cold draft had nothing to do with the weather; they all knew that.

"Oh. I need to speak with Matvey," Russia said, his voice was low and threatening. "He has let something so grievous and disgusting pass without so much as making any movement to stop it. He's a weak and undeserving country. This would never happen to _me_."

"What?" Alfred snapped; standing in a wide stance so that Russia wouldn't walk past him, his hand on the edge of the door in some weak attempt to shield the inside of the clinic. "What are you going on about?"

"It's disgusting," Russia continued, face blackening. "How he could be so weak that he can't even keep people holding the proper respect. Perhaps he needs to work on being more forceful, but I doubt it. He's so weak. He's too _fragile_ to be a nation, da? I want to speak with him. I want to help him." He grinned.

Nobody liked that grin.

"Oh like _hell_. I bet you want to go in there and 'teach' him what to do, huh?"

"That is _exactly_ right, Amerika. Good job. I didn't have to explain it for you more than twice. You are improving. I'm sure your father is _proud_. Can you do multiplications ye-"

"_Shut the fuck up and go home you snow-humping asshole_."

Russia tilted his head. "Mmn... No."

England was tense. This was not good. This was not something they needed at all right then. It wasn't something they needed at all _anyway_. He glanced behind him, and for a second, he saw the doctor in the hallway, looking at them curiously. He saw Russia, paled considerably, and then disappeared from view.

England glanced back to Ivan to see that the Russian's eyes were right where his were seconds before. He had seen the doctor too.

"I think, if you want to direct anger, direct it at Matvey or _him_," Russia instructed, pointing out to the hallway where the doctor had retreated. "I do not like him at all. I wouldn't mind. Someone so disrespectful does not deserve kindness. And even _that_," he added, "Has to be earned."

"Blah blah blah, 'I'm an insane motherfucker' blah blah blah, we've heard this story before."

"Oh believe me, Amerika, if you heard what I had to say, I am sure you would be very angry at Matvey as well, da? I believe you would be on my side. Yes. I am confident."

"Oh like _hell_ I would." Alfred started to make movements to close the door. His hand pushed hard against it, exploiting his monster-like strength to force the door closed.

Russia, however, wouldn't have it. Swiftly, and with the sort of speed that no man of Russia's bulk should have, he stepped forward and shoved past America on the _other_ side, letting go of the door in the process.

This turned Alfred's brute strength, struggling against Russia's own, into pure energy against nothing... The door _slammed_ shut, glass shattered, and America went tumbling through the now 'open' door.

Russia just looked behind him lazily.

He adjusted his scarf, almost too tightly around his neck, and moved forward to go have his 'talk'.

Alfred sat up. "Augh. Fuck. _Again_," he dusted glass shards from his hair and he forced himself up again. The bastard used his strength against him _again_. Why didn't he ever learn?

"N... ah!" He bent, suddenly aware of pain. Even though the door was a special sort of glass that didn't shatter into thick shards, he was aware of a minor cut across his cheek, as well as on his forehead. But that wasn't the issue. The issue was the tingling at his stomach.

On his travels through the tempered glass, Alfred had part of it all smash into his middle, nicely embedding a few of the shards there neatly.

"Alfred! For god's sakes, are you _alright_?"

America sucked in a breath and rapidly dust himself off to dislodge small pieces of glass from himself.

"_Bastard_."

"A-ah… a…" France was gesturing dumbly to where Russia was going, bouncing on his heels. "Russia… Mathieu..."

Alfred stopped his dusting, forgot about his own pain, stepped through the newly-made entrance and dashed down the hall after the casually-walking Russian. The tinkling of glass followed after him.

When he turned the corner, he found that Ivan had cornered the doctor, who looked justly terrified, pressed against the wall as Russia stood there, looking 'polite' and 'interested', one hand was even in his pocket as if this was a passing conversation. The other hand was on the man's shoulder in a 'comforting' manner, but the indent in the lab coat proved it was nothing short of painful.

"Aw, I am sad. You forget our entire conversation?"

"U-u-..."

"And when I had made it very clear that I did not want you to forget?"

"B...you...d..."

"How sad. You are very stupid. Though not the stupidest person I know." He stopped, noticing Alfred. "Oh! Amerika. Nice to see you. I didn't expect to see you so soon. If you are in need of a doctor because of your somersault before - and you do look like you need to see a doctor - you will have to go to the waiting room, da? I am busy with him. I'll just be a little while. Okay? Try not to die," he added cheerfully.

America's face darkened, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "Let him _go_."

Ivan just turned back to the man and continued talking. "So. Anyway. I have a question for you. Who is the country you are treating?"

"I... I... I don't know. I... I know that the United Kingdom is here... and... America, a-an-a-and... y-you're Russia. B-but... They never _told_ me, _you_ never told me, who... who that country is in there." He swallowed and he glanced at America.

He continued frantically, gesturing to Alfred in a panic, his fearful eyes locked with Russia's smoldering purple ones. "H... He said the-they couldn't say! It was a matter of n-national security! H-he said to t-treat him like a normal p-person and nothing else!"

"Oh that is a bad excuse."

Russia's hand grabbed the man's arm, moving from his shoulder, and he began to tug him to the only room he saw the lights on. "Let us go."

"O...ow...ow... s-stop! Stop!"

America stepped forward and grabbed Russia's shoulder, tugging him back. "Did you hear me before? Let him go. I happen to know that your shoulder probably still hurts like a _bitch_ after what I did to it before. How about I re-aggravate it for you?" He cracked his free-hand for effect.

Russia just... ignored him and looked at the doctor. "I will tell you who that country is. That country is Canada."

The doctor paused, looking stunned. America just looked confused. Yes, he'd have preferred it that the doctor didn't know, but he had his own reasons for that. He was certain that the doctor knowing wouldn't hurt anything, but he had wanted to play it _safe _considering what had been happening lately. But really, why did it matter?

"... You have to be kidding."

"Oh. I am not kidding at _all_, little man," Russia chortled with amusement. "Not at all."

"Oh, but that can't be the representative of Canada."

America's grip on Russia's shoulders weakened. "Huh...? Can't...?"

"Oh! He can. He is, da? Surely you should know that, Mr. _Canadian_ doctor. I am surprised. You treat him for so long yet you have no idea who he is. It's _disgusting_."

Alfred froze. "What."

Russia just smiled, the doctor was torn between confusion and terror. Ivan knew he had Alfred right where he wanted. He knew that _this_ was something even _he _couldn't ignore.

"What." America repeated. "..._What?_"

The doctor unexpectedly found the hero to have become a new aggressor. Alfred turned on the man in a flavor of bated fury, "What! You're _Canadian!_ You're from Canada! You're his citizen! You didn't tell us! Were you lying? Wait. You're lying. You have to be lying. You're a spy. I bet you're a _Russian_ spy!" He rambled.

"Ah. Not with that again Amerika. No no... Please, Mr. Canadian Doctor, tell him all that you told me, da? Tell him what you told me when I asked you what nationality you were. Tell him what you told me after that," Russia encouraged. More like demanded. There was no choice.

"I... I don't understand..."

"When I asked you what country you were from, you said you were from Canada, da? Then I introduced myself as Russia, did I not?"

"Y-yes... b-but I really don't re-"

The hand squeezed and effectively shut him up.

Russia just continued, "You will find this amusing, Amerika. Because, when I had said that, you know what this doctor said to me? He said something like," He paused, trying to recall the words by looking at the white tiled ceiling, "Like... Ah! He said, 'Oh, that's nice, I have never met my country representative before. In fact, I was not even sure we even had one.' Yes. That is what he said."

There was silence.

America's brain seemed to stop functioning for a second, torn between slamming Russia to the floor, or slamming the doctor to the wall. His brain grappled between the two decisions. He shook.

It was England that gave the proper response. He had heard it all from the hallway, as did France. But Francis just looked somewhat pale. England looked more horrified than anyone else. He wasn't fighting any sort of urge to flatten someone, but he had been in the room when some of the truth came out.

"_Is that true!_" He demanded, walking down the hallway. He looked at the doctor, not in anger, but in pure fear of what he said. "Is this _true_?"

"W-wh..."

"What you said. Is that true? Did you _really_ not believe that you had a representative for your own country? Is that really _true_?"

Faltering, the doctor finally spoke, breaking under the oppressive nature of three countries bearing down on him. All for entirely different reasons attached to the same catalyst. "I... I... _yes_. Yes! I... I don't see h-how that ma-matters! I just... never... paid mu-much attention! I... I love my country! I... I just didn't know if there was a representation. I w-wasn't upset that we didn't have one... I mean it's just a re-"

"_You do have one and he's in that room right now_," Alfred pointed viciously to the hallway that turned off to where Matthew was. "He's in there. RIGHT NOW. And if you think that he's just some sort of 'representation' then you have another fucking thing coming. It doesn't work like that. We _are _the country. You got that? We are not some fucking lunch-box material mascot. We. Are. COUNTRIES. And THAT is the country you fucking _claim_ to 'love' you mother-fucking son of a-"

His hand slammed in the wall next to the doctor's face.

"-_BITCH_."

The man wilted.

America pulled back his hand, shaking it off and ignoring the deep throb that penetrated it from re-aggravating a similarly-inflicted injury. Frankly, nothing that should have been hurting, was hurting. He just couldn't feel it all.

Russia had caught the man, not that he particularly cared what would have happened to him, but having him knock his head and get a concussion would add an unnecessary distraction. He levered him to sit against the wall and left him there.

"Now you see the problem Amerika? Is it _clear_ enough for you?"

America fumed, turning to Russia.

"This is why I need to _talk_ to Matvey; the mere fact that he let something as disgusting as this happen, is unforgivable. I intend to give such a young and weak country a good _lesson_, da?"

Despite what he just heard, Alfred threatened, "You will do no such thing."

"Oh? I am surprised."

"Do you really think that the thing he needs most right now is some psychopath trying to 'teach him a lesson'? Do you think it's going to he-" He paused. "_Where the fuck do you think you're going!_"

And he jogged after Russia, England following, and France weakly trailing afterwards.

"You. Are. Not. Going. To. Bother. Matthew." Alfred gritted.

"I do not care what you say to me, Amerika. I only care for what business I have with Matvey."

Alfred grabbed his shoulder, he was batted away. Alfred grabbed his arm, it was yanked away. Alfred side-checked him into the wall with his shoulder. Nothing could stop that.

Russia gave a 'tch' of pain when his injured shoulder was harassed again and he slid down the wall for a second, just managing to regain his footing. Alfred reached out, grabbed him by the collar and yanked him upward onto his feet again.

"Listen to me. You are not going to do a thing to Mattie. He's resting. He needs it. And the only reason I'm confident he hasn't woken up because of the mess _you_ made," America said, ignoring the fact that he had done most of the yelling, "Is because I lent him my Mp3 player and my sound-canceling earphones so he could just shut _out_ everything." His grip tightened on Ivan's collar. "I intend to _keep_ it that way."

America was aware of what had come to light, more pieces to the puzzle painting a gruesome picture. But, he knew that at least he could hold and protect one thing : peace and calm for his brother. He was not going to so much as _deal_ with the new information until he got the crazy fucktard away from his brother.

"First mistake," Russia said cleanly. "Leaving yourself open." He then gave America a very short and quick punch to his stomach. It wasn't that it was _hard_, but it was completely winding. Not to mention it was driven against pieces of glass that were still there, and drove them in then out again. A few clinked to the floor.

America's eyes widened in pain, air forced from him and he let go and fell to his knees struggling for breath.

"Second mistake," Russia started to walk past the other two who were stunned and frozen for what to do, "Assuming that I gave a shit, da?" He chuckled softly and ended his journey to the door.

He reached, and turned the knob.

. . .

Some time before the whole mess in the meeting room had started, Matthew was awake again. His mind had been lurching with what had happened between him and his brother (and his father) a short while ago. How angry and how pained his brother had sounded. Everything he had said...

He had thought about it to exhaustion, and had only just woken up from sleeping to the soft sounds of classical music that his brother had apologetically lent to him.

It was nice... not having to hear anything else. His mind was too numb to think about it anymore, so he sat up, wobbly, the oxygen mask still on his face, and pulled out his cellphone.

Maybe he couldn't completely stop thinking about it… Because he felt a glimmer of hope when he saw he had '1 Message Received'. Maybe they finally _did_ get back to him... Maybe they finally did remember he had to do work and help and... Ah...

It wasn't from his government.

He almost wanted to shut it in disappointment, and he did, ready to put it away, but his Canadian nature took over and he flipped his phone back open to read who it was from.

"From : Gil-Awesome : Yo Birde"

He couldn't help but let loose a small chuckle and decided to open the message. A message from Gilbert, eh? It had been only a little while since he talked to the older, more seasoned, ex-nation.

He read the message. He instantly realized that Gilbert must have e-mailed with his laptop because it was fairly long and taxing to be done with his thumbs.

_Heya Birdie! I heard from West just now that you were sick or some shit. Well... I figured it was you. He just suddenly recalled that America-whatzit said something about his brother being sick to him and he just remembered it now. I figured it'd be YOU. 'cause like... What other brothers does he have? Does Australia or Sealand count...? Hong Kong...? Ahhhh fuck it. I dun' give a shit._

_ Anyway! I heard you were sick. That BLOWS. It's un-awesome to be sick. Come on Matt. You're supposed to be awesome. Like me. Or to a lesser degree. Kinda LIKE me, ALMOST me, don't be sad, but you can't BE me. As much as you'd want to be. Oh yeah._

_ I was wondering if I could come attack you at your house and shit and maybe we could blow more fucking zombies up or something. That'll make you feel better! Makes me feel better (not that I EVER get sick). And I need to lend you the new game too. IT'S SO AWESOME._

_My PMSing bruder said that I'm not allowed to play it when Feli is over 'cause it's too gory and he's not appreciative of the zombie Nazis. And me shooting them. In his house. Ffffffff. Who CARES? Just zombies. Jeeze man._

_ If you're REALLY sick n'shit... Just tell me if I, the awesome me, __can't __come over. I'll TOTALLY understand. Hahahaha. NOT. The awesome me does not get ill! Bwahahaha! I shall be fine! Maybe I'll bring you some potatoes and wurst. Kesesese__._

_ Anywhoo. GOTTA GO. Bruder is bitchin' at me to go clean the bier bottles I left all over the kitchen counters. _

_ Message me when you want the awesome me over! _

_ - The best, most awesome fantastical and whimsical me. (Prussia. FUCK YEAH)_

Matthew stared at the extensive letter, and he almost put a hand to his mouth and laughed. Oh... Oh Gilbert. He always wrote long and strange messages that really were way too much longer than they needed to be. Wouldn't a simple, 'Sorry you're sick, can I come over and play video games with you? I got a new one. I'll bring food,' suffice? Was it really necessary for Gilbert to go into such a tirade?

Yes... Yes it was. Canada smiled and he moved to reply.

_Not sure. Thanks for the message. Made me laugh. If you come over I'll still make you pancakes. Kumajirou still doesn't forgive you for using him as a pillow last time so watch out for him. He'll be grumpy with you. I'll send a proper message when I get an idea of when you can come. Not at home right now._

_Please don't annoy your brother.  
_

- _Matthew Williams._

He closed his cellphone with a sigh, feeling tired, and put it down on the side-table where his glasses were. It was nice that he was no longer on the examination table, but rather, in a bed. Still not the most comfortable bed in the world, but it was a bed; and the room, though still very medical-orientated, was comfortable enough. The headphones were doing a good job of keeping the muffled sounds from being too loud...

He paused. Muffled sounds?

He heard them. Distinct low muffled sounds. He then _felt_ what seemed to be a light tremor of something. He wasn't sure what.

The muffles got louder and Canada pulled off the sound-cancelling headphones just as the door was flung open.

"-_Stop you brute! _Alfred, don't try to get up. BLOODY! Stop! Francis HELP. You! _Don't take a single step in that room_. Oh FUCK."

Canada was swarmed with yelling and sounds and rushes of panic, so much that he didn't notice Russia storming up to his bedside with a black aura of intent leaking through his person.

He was oh-so-aware of it though when the man was standing right in front of him, the aura crackling.

"Matve-"

America had gotten up, wheezing and gasping heavily, and tugged Russia back by the collar, choking Ivan and slamming him to the ground backward. When that was done, Alfred bent over, hands on his knees, still gasping for raspy breaths. One of his hands moved to his stomach, brushing over the shallow, but very painful, wounds.

"A-...ah..."

France and England erupted into the room, not turning to Alfred or to the temporarily stunned Ivan, but to Matthew. France had practically launched himself at Matthew, and before Canada could do anything, he found himself in France's arms, at the far end of the bed, and England standing in front of the both of them, feet firm on the ground, looking forward seriously at Russia who was rising again.

"Papa w-"

"Shh! Mon mignon. Shh! Papa is 'ere for you. Sshh..." He hushed, tugging him closer and putting a hand on Canada's head while he held him protectively to his chest like a mother would their infant child.

England stayed firm when the sweeping form of Ivan stood finally, boots rooting to the floor as he stared darkly at America.

"You know... Amerika... that was incredibly stupid. I sometimes am surprised by your stupidity. You sometimes do things... Even I would not predict." He brushed himself of invisible dust and glared.

Alfred still gasped, but his breaths were evening out. He wiped his forehead of the beading sweat and straightened the best he could, refusing to grimace, and smirked. "Yeah? That's not stupidity. I just one-upped you big man."

"No. It is stupidity."

"Ppft. Yeah right."

Ivan sighed, as if bored. "Now Amerika, do not derail the real reason for this chat of ours. I need to speak with Matvey."

Canada felt France's grip tighten on him, and for once he didn't care. England edged back slightly, as if to hide Canada from view. Something was clear: Ivan's aura was tinged a bit _red_ he'd say. It had a malicious sort of intent in it, and he suddenly had no intention to find out why.

"Oh that ain't fuckin' happening. I have no idea why we brought you along to begin with. I knew that'd be a problem. Ohhh I knew it would be. I tried to ignore it. I tried to think that _maybe_ you weren't trying to fucking _do_ something..." America growled. "_That_ was me being fucking _stupid_."

"Hmn."

Ivan turned around to face England and France, and moved so he could 'speak to Matvey'.

"Don't ignore me!"

"Matvey," Russia began darkly. "I would like to speak to you..."

"I said don't _ignore me_," Alfred moved to grab the back of his coat, but was surprisingly just slapped away. Obviously Russia wasn't going to fall to that again.

"... about something _disgusting_ you have done, da?"

Shivers ran up Matthew's spine.

"_Leave him alone_!" America grabbed Russia's arm and he started to physically pull him back, rooting his feet and dragging him across the floor, like he used to do with buffalo long before England ever found him. But for some reason the man just seemed to weigh so much _more_.

"We've got him Alfred! We won't let Ivan near him," England barked with confidence. "Just get Russia _out of here_."

Russia was growing cold, knowing that fighting against America using his full strength was useless and energy-abusing. He spoke darkly. "If you continue your actions, this means _war_ Amerika."

America didn't waver. He merely laughed, and then spat back, "If you so much as touch a single hair on _my_ brother's head, then I am going to nuke the _shit_ out of you. And _I'm_ not kidding."

This caused Russia to pause.

"Aha! Thought so. Not so tasty when it comes out of my mouth is it? It's fine when it comes out of _yours_ though. Face it – You have no intention to start a war with us. We'll flatten you to fucking hell and then divide you up for the taking. You KNOW that."

Russia glared.

"I heard that Prussia was looking for some land agai-"

"_ENOUGH_."

Ivan was seething, so much so that America was making much better time dragging him towards the door. He wasn't fighting against him, he was just incredibly pissed.

"If it's a fight you want Amerika... And no war? I can give you _that_ for sure."

Canada looked up from where he was buried into France and shouted. "W-wait! No! No fighting!"

"Matthew," England bit.

"No! Alfred! Don't fight him! It's not going to do any good! Ivan! I don't care what you have to say to me! Just say it! It's fine! I don't care! Don't fight Alfred!"

"_Matthew_."

"_Please_ don't fight again! Don't! A 'non-official' fight or not this isn't going to help in future country relations! And I don't want _either_ of you to be hurt so-"

"Matthew _shut up_!"

His lips closed sharply. But what could being quiet do? He was held closer into his papa's chest, and he knew he could do nothing to stop the two nations that seemed they were trying to kill each other by mere glances.

Why was this happening? He didn't understand. He had no idea what was going on. Whatever Ivan had to say, he could just _say_ it, it wouldn't change a thing... Would it? Why was Russia so mad?

What was going _on_?

While Matthew was going on this tirade in his head, Arthur was feeling guilty for snapping at his son, but he really did not want him to get involved. At all. Ignoring all facts plainly stating that Canada was the sole reason this was happening in the first place, England stepped further back, trying to keep Matthew out of view. But for what good would that do?

America was standing, preparing for the battle to come. Russia swung, and America ducked under the blow, tackling his legs. England shouted, France shrieked, and Russia tumbled down backwards and into England.

"_Shit_!'

"Alfred!"

"Ahh!"

"L'Angleterre!"

"STOP!"

Russia shoved England off and into Alfred with a growl. He only caught a glimpse of Canada, nearly ignoring the man, before a switch in his brain flicked back to 'on' and he remembered why he was there in the first place. He disregarded the other countries.

He turned on him, ignoring France altogether. "You…"

He didn't know what he was going to say, he couldn't find the words anymore. France was starting to annoy him from the corner of his eye though; dark aura swelling, his hand moved automatically, prying the man up and away from Canada so he could better 'talk' to him about his disgusting behavior.

"You don't _deserve_ to be a cou-"

A loud and vicious slap rang out, then another one back-handed his face back to where he was facing before.

France was away from Canada, but only because it was Matthew who had shoved him away first.

"Whatever you have to say," He wheezed; his wrist was cracking, his hand, shaking, "You say to _me_. Leave my family _out _of it."

Russia rubbed one of his cheeks, his cold eyes locked with Matthew's. "You are practically no longer a country, _Matvey_. And it _disgusts me_."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I feel so good for being regular with updating! Thank my new shiny awesome beta-reader for giving me this back pretty much right-away and with awesome edits and checks! So great.

And I have been waiting to get this chapter to you. I'll work hard on Chapter 14 too! While you wait, if you like the "FACE" family (such an odd fan-name), then check out my new one-shot stuff.

Reason I mention this? XD I can see the stories in the same sorta universe. Just snippets of Al and Mattie growing up.

ENJOY THE CHAPTER.

I'm going to sleep. Okay? Okay. Good. Night.

By the way, this chapter wasn't so insanely long. That wasn't on purpse or anything. Just turned out that way.

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**Chapter 14 Preview :** Crash and burn baby. Crash and burn. Things are coming into place. But knowing is not even half the battle. What the fuck good does knowledge do if one can't do anything with it? Crash and burn.

* * *

Thanks for Reading! Read and REVIEW please! Every little bit helps and goes towards making me know what you guys like! PLEASE read and review! It helps me know that people are reading still, and especially now.

You guys are awesome.


	14. Brother in Arms

**Disclaimer of this Chapter :** Swearing lightens up a lot. Seems Alfred's potty-mouth fades after a time...

**Ownership :** I own nuffin. Well. I own stuff. Not Hetalia. I got the first two seasons of Hetalia though! Oooo. But that does not mean I made it. Saddd...

**Important Note :** ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down any nation in question. This is based off of characterizations and not the countries involved. Thank you very much.

This chapter was also beta'd by Ophelion. Who did another awesome job. And was very very thorough. Yay! Woo!

Here's another chapter! Hehehe

Ah! Also, with this update, the story is officially over 100,000 words long. That's kind of ridiculous... Hahaha...

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**Chapter Fourteen Summary :** Russia and America may not mix, but they both have words of wisdom to impart on dearest Matthew. Entirely different points of wisdom...

* * *

**- Chapter 14 - Brother in Arms - **

The words that Russia ended with were left in the air like a mob of angry bees. Silence had fallen viciously upon everyone, even Matthew and Ivan as they stared down each other in the chilling, buzzing silence.

Slowly, Matthew's hand lowered from where it still remained upheld from the vicious double-slap that he dealt to the man's face, and he carefully settled it down in his lap, swallowing thickly and looking at Russia, who was looking at _him_ in expectation – An expectation that Canada would somehow react in a way that would please him.

But Canada just looked at him, swallowing again; the light wheeze of his breath in the mask was all that was heard. His eyes were trained on Ivan's own, and despite being glassy with sickness, they focused hard on Russia's in a capturing way. Nostrils were flared slightly, whitening the edges before his face relaxed again.

After a moment of not getting the response he wanted, despite not being sure what he wanted - but he knew he wanted _something_ – Russia cleared his throat, readying to speak. "I said -"

"I heard you," Canada cut in, quietly. "I heard what you said."

"Then why don't you say anything, da?" Russia responded, coolly, his own hand finally sliding from his abused cheek. "Is it because you fear it is true?"

"I just have nothing to say to it," was the response. Matthew's voice was oddly hard, stern; his words were bitten off sharply, and the tone, cool.

"You _must_ - "

"I have _nothing_ I want to say to that," Canada snapped, but his tone remained quiet. "If that's the reason why you felt like ramming in here like a bull, and hurting my family, then I don't understand your point."

"Matvey, Like I ca-"

"Care? You don't. Obviously. Look, this is pointless, Ivan," Canada said, voice still cool. He gestured to the door. "Go home. If you don't care, then _why_ are you here?"

It was Russia's turn to have his nostrils flare. He leaned over in an intimidating manner towards the ill nation. The movement caused Alfred to jerk, but Canada shook his head, glancing at his brother, then focused back on the much-closer Russian. It was only that gesture that stopped America from making any move.

"You can't just ignore what was said, Matvey."

"I'm not ignoring it," Canada admitted. "I heard what you said. But I have nothing I can say to that." He paused, taking in a breath that ended with a sigh. "Go home. Stop bothering us. Leave my family alone."

"I don't think so."

"_Look_," Canada gritted, his voice hardening again. There was stress and strain starting to peak at the edges of his voice. "This has _nothing_ to do with them, okay? You can say all you want to me, do what you want to _me_ -"

"- Matt -"

Alfred was ignored. "- But leave my family _out_ of this, Russia. Understand? Out. Of. This."

America was looking between Canada and Russia, his hand pressed to his wounded abdomen. He glanced at England. What should they do? He gestured with his head to the two nations that were staring each other down and looked back to Arthur for answers.

Arthur glanced at Alfred, and shook his head. He had no idea. For the time being, he just wanted to watch.

Russia had decided to plow on, as though what Canada said was an invitation to say whatever he damned-well pleased. If that was the case, then he was going to be _more_ than happy to take it. "Matvey, you are _practically_ no longer a country," he repeated.

"So I've heard."

"It is disgusting," Ivan continued on like Matthew hadn't said a thing. "I am ashamed to even know you. You let these things happen to you, and yet you do not care? Now, you are obviously paying dearly for it."

Canada just listened, but England noticed where his hand was making a tight fist around a fold in the blankets, knuckles white.

Russia still continued on, "You know... What if ... _Your_ influence, on _your_ country ends up affecting more than just you, da?"

"It won't."

"Ah? But what if? What if what you've _let_ happen to yourself - "

"I didn't _let_ anything happen!"

"- happens to some other country because of you?"

Canada's nostrils whitened again and he bit, "It _won't_ Ivan."

"If it does," Russia accused. "I will not hesitate to... _eliminate_ the problem."

Alfred jerked forward at that, teeth clenching and a snarl starting to form on his lips. But he was tugged back by a firm English hand. There was a hiss in his ear telling him not to react to anything and stay quiet. And listen. As much as he didn't want to, the throb in his stomach made him sit back, and begrudgingly listen, teeth grinding.

"It _won't_," Matthew said tersely, voice wavering a fraction. "It won't. This only has to do with _me_ Ivan, and I intend to keep it that way."

"For now it does."

_"Ivan!_" Matthew voice suddenly reverberated in the room. "Enough! Go home! Leave! You're not helping right now if you so believe that's the case! I appreciate what you're trying to say, but you have to leave. You don't understand. Just _go. __H__ome._"

Russia stood back, affronted. Canada just stared in return, his wheezing being drowned in the silence of the room.

Ivan's fingers twitched in their leather gloves. For a moment, everyone in the room was sure that Russia was going to lash out and hit Matthew. Perhaps even Ivan himself believed that. Instead, he reached toward his own neck. Looping his fingers around the scarf, he pulled it off roughly. It was half-thrust, half-flung into Matthew's chest.

"Take that," he spat. "Take it. I do not want to be _poisoned_ by you." He gestured with disgust to the red scarf that Matthew was now holding. "I hope whatever it is you have done... that it is not contagious."

Ivan straightened, his fist clenching and unclenching, wanting to act, but not being let to do so.

Matthew did not dignify any of that with a response, disgusting Ivan further, causing his fist to close very tightly. He glanced toward the other family members for a moment, brain deliberating, and turned away. He spoke though, "And Matvey? I will be back if I find out anything else." He paused, hand relaxing, and the cold air of smugness returned to him like _none_ of the previous conversation had occurred. "If, that is, it hasn't killed you by then."

Canada breathed, quietly, his mask of angry indifference shattering as he held tightly to the hand-woven threads of the red scarf. His eyes followed Ivan, watching him turn, sweep past Alfred, and leave the room.

It took all of Alfred's willpower to not follow the man, but he forced himself to bite it down, to let it go, to watch Ivan leave and hopefully get the chance to spit in his wake. He remained stalk-still, standing where he was, holding his stomach, eyeing the door with a frank viciousness that spoke volumes of what he'd do if the man were to turn around.

Canada was the one to break the silence. "T-there," his voice wavered, his hands were twisting anxiously around the red fabric that was twined in his fists. "He... He shouldn't come back..."

England's hand tightening on Canada's shoulder was the best amount of reassurance the British man could give his son right then. He wasn't sure what to say to the young man, but he was thankful all the same that somehow they managed to get Russia defused and taken care of.

Though what had been said was...

With a soft breath, listening to his son's own breaths quicken, he leaned and reached out with his hand, to take the scarf Canada was fumbling with wordlessly. It was tugged away from his reach, and he pulled back on the attempt to remove it.

Minutes dragged on. Alfred had left the room for a number of them, then came back when he confirmed that the man had indeed left the premises, and wasn't skulking around a dark corner, waiting like the creepy mother-fucker that he was. It was then that his mind reeled back into reality and he approached his quaking brother's side.

"Hey. Matt," he started, eyebrows crinkling. "I'm really sorry for what that commie ba-"

"Al," Canada said, his voice still hinting at his tone with Ivan before, "I...I appreciate you trying to... protect me and all, but when it comes to Ivan, don't just end up pissing him off _more_." His eyes adverted; there was an unspoken, 'especially when it has to do with me'. He swallowed. "Just let him in, quietly, an-and maybe you won't get hurt..." He glanced at where Alfred's hand still lay, and then to his brother's face.

America's hand whipped away from his stomach. "Haha! This? Nah. This is nothing. I'm barely hurt. See?" He twisted his torso back and forth. "Perfectly fine! Hahaha! What are you t-talking... about..."

Canada was still quiet-toned when he spoke, "T-that... that hurt a lot, didn't it?"

Alfred's eyes were watering in pain but a smile was still stuck stubbornly in place; he distinctly felt a few of the shards that were left there grind together, and one must have dislodged because he felt a bit of warmth from a new small flow of blood.

"Hahaha..."

"Al..."

No use hiding it.

"... Like a _bitch_." Alfred bent over again and his hand went back to his middle. "Nng..."

Canada's eyebrows furrowed, his expression pained. He finally acknowledged the presence gripping his shoulder and looked to England pleadingly. "Dad... Can you help Alfred please?"

"Whu-? I don't need help!"

England was the one to reply, squeezing Matthew's shoulder reassuringly, affirming that he didn't have to do or say any more. "Alfred. You do. I saw what happened. Even if it's superficial, which I can't be sure of quite yet, it still needs to be taken _care_ of."

"Augh..."

England looked at Matthew, whose eyes had not left where Alfred's hand was resuming its hold. He noted a flicker, gazed sparingly at the floor, and saw the few small shards of glass that had just clinked there, bloodied.

England looked past Matthew and to Francis, who remained deathly quiet. "You. Frog."

Francis twitched.

"Go out to the hallway and see if the doctor hasn't died from a bloody stroke," he snapped. He swallowed, trying to force his tone to be calm and almost soothing; though this had nothing to do with the idiot of a Frenchman before him. "Please. Now."

"O-Oi! I don't want that man touching me!" America protested.

England responded as France fled the room. "Alfred, don't argue."

"But I don't - "

"_Alfred_," he nodded his head toward Matthew, who was still looking at his brother with the pained expression of worry.

America's mouth opened, closed, and he frowned. He decided to sit down on the floor, and whined instead. "This fucking sucks..."

England watched Canada watch America, and he spoke out again, addressing Alfred more so than Matthew. While he spoke, he reached to take the scarf that was still in Canada's quaking hands. "I think someone needs to take control of the situation."

"Control?"

"Yes." He gently eased the garment out of one of Matthew's hands, and was working on the other, all while looking at America. "I've decided that it should be myself."

"What? _You?_" America protested. "Why you?"

"Because I don't go punching solid fixtures or ramming myself through _glass doors_, now do I?" England then felt the need to add. "As well as, I'm _not_ requiring bed-rest," he glanced at Matthew, "Nor am I _idiotic enough_ to lead a bloody _madman_ to where my son is!" The last was directed at the doorway where France had left.

He sighed, pulling back and standing, holding the scarf that was now completely in his own possession. "That being said... I shall take control of the situation. Alfred, once we get you treated, we are going to move this whole 'party'. But _until_ then, and _until_ I can guarantee that my ill-son and my _idiot_-son have gotten _proper rest_, then we can discuss other things."

"Do you mean..."

"Later."

America paused, watching his father's intense gaze. Later. Nothing that just happened with Russia would be mentioned until it was the right time? Was that what he was implying? One glance at his brother told him that yes, yes it was. And he understood and believed that to be the best choice. Later.

England, satisfied to see Alfred not complain, and even better, nod in agreement, turned to Canada.

He put his hands along with the scarf they held behind his back, and leaned over. "Alright. Thank you Matthew, for dealing with Russia." He dropped the scarf to the floor behind him. "We'll take over everything from here."

He urged Matthew back down with two firm hands, and kicked the scarf towards America, who picked it up then stuffed it away and out of view.

"Just rest up."

. . .

America was sitting up, cross legged, on the same bed as Matthew. He was sitting far off to one side of the bed, so that the Canadian who was laying on his side could be as he was, with plenty of room to spare. Alfred was shirtless, with bandages around his middle and around his poor hand that he had now mutilated twice.

Canada's breathing wheezed and that's what Alfred was focusing on. Matthew was facing away from him in his temporary sleep; Alfred quietly sat there and rubbed Canada's back and side with his good hand while he waited.

Apparently England, the self-imposed person 'in charge' was trying to figure out arrangements so something like _that_ couldn't happen again. It was for good reason. Other than keeping Alfred from being further humiliated by that fucking _bastard_, Ivan, it would also keep Matthew safe and _calm_. Unsurprisingly, stress seemed to just make him worse.

It was hard to listen to those wheezing breaths. No matter how soft and even they were. He patted Canada's side and withdrew his hand for a moment, looking forward.

"Hey... When this is all over, how about you and me go and party or something? We can go... play hockey," he glanced at Matthew. "Then go to a bar and drink your Canadian beer and eat poutine and have pancakes and real maple syrup in the morning."

America's hand resumed patting Matthew's back slightly when he had drawn a particularly squeaky breath. "How does that sound...?"

He expected Canada to be asleep, but a mumbled reply came, "S'nds good..."

Alfred wanted to say something, anything, about what he had learnt before. The doctor, what Russia had said, what _Matthew_ had said... But it didn't happen. He didn't have the heart to, just yet. Maybe England was right. They should wait.

He snuffed a long breath of air out his nose and then began to ruffle Matthew's hair, since he _was _awake. "Sure you think it's good ya Hockey-nut! You're such a _Canadian_, eh!"

"Hey..." Matthew batted at the hand that was assaulting his head, and America saw Canada's eyes flicker open as lavender glared into blue. "Stop that..."

"... No." America assaulted his hair more. "Jeeze Matt. You really need a _shower_. Your hair is _gross_."

Canada started to flush and he tried to grab onto the hand that was terrorizing his hair. His hands fumbled with America's stronger one, and he made a discomforted sound when he couldn't get the other man to stop attacking his head.

The feeling of Matthew's smaller, heated hand brushing against his own made Alfred halt. A disconcerting reminder of reality swam in the tingle of Canada's slight fever. He stopped for only a second, disheartened by the fact that reality would never escape him, before he flicked that thought away and began to attack his brother's head more viciously.

"Rahhh!"

"H-hey!" Canada started to laugh. "Stop! Hey! That's my head!"

"Never!"

"A-_hem_."

America stopped his assault instantly, and looked up, hand still on Canada's hair, which was completely _everywhere_ now. "... Oh. S'just you."

England rolled his eyes. "Just me, eh? Now, I have our plans sorted out for at least the next week or so. Hopefully. If all things go according to plan."

"Oh...?" America withdrew his hand, and Canada sat up slightly, trying to sweep his hair back while sticking his tongue out at Alfred, before paying attention to his father.

"Yes. First of all, Matthew is going to need a place to stay. This much is obvious. However, I don't think his current home, nor this clinic, will do." He sounded stressed, like he was trying to speed this as much as possible.

"Well where _else_?" America asked, shuffling over to sit beside his brother now that he was up, and dangled his legs over the edge of the bed. "Where else? Currently, with what has been going on, the idea of a hospital doesn't sit well with me. And if that fucking commie tries anything again-"

"Alfred _please_. I said that he needs a place to stay, I didn't say I had no clue _where_," England grunted. "Alright. He, should stay with you."

"... Wha? Me?" America blinked, gesturing to himself. "Really? Not... Not that I think that's a bad idea, but why me?"

"Because you're the bloody United States of America. Your border crossing is _terrible_ to get through nowadays. And I bloody well know you're paranoid enough that if Ivan so much as takes a step within a hundred kilometers of your border, you would be _well_ aware. Believe me, I have high doubts that Russia will come back if Matthew is with _you_."

"Huh... That is true..."

"U-uh... I agree with all that..." Matthew said, trying to find a way to just stick his hair back for the time being. "But don't I get a say -?"

England was apologetic for talking about Canada like he wasn't there. "No. Unfortunately, you don't. Not right now Matthew. I apologize. Currently just... just a _lot_ has happened, and if we can remove variables of chaos than we are bloody-well _going_ to. I've also spoke to the doctor. If Alfred," England glanced at America, "promises to not attempt any bodily harm unto him, he's agreed to be on-call for anything Matthew might need. This means, he'll come to _us_."

Alfred was quiet, thinking, then he nodded. "I like the sound of all of that. Okay. I can do that."

"Right. There are other things we must discuss, but they are neither here nor there at the moment."

"But -" Alfred interrupted. "I'm not too fond of that doctor-guy. Just letting you know that right now. Especially with what he said before."

England huffed. "Yes, that's all very well and good, but at the moment we don't have any options. He's taken very good care of Matthew regardless of certain things that have been said. As I already told you, we'll discuss this later. When I can be damned sure that we have the time to. For now, we'll deal with what we got."

Canada frowned at all of this. He was going to have to stay with his brother? Who was injured? His dad was taking the lead, and it was plain that so much happened in too-little time. And his papa... Well, he had no idea where Francis was, but he did know that England had threatened the man a good reaming since knowing _France_ was the one who led Russia to the clinic.

He just... He didn't want them to be involved. He didn't want them to be involved before, and he didn't want them to be involved now. Especially now. Sure, he had at first sort of wanted someone to be there when he was feeling ill... But he didn't want them to get_this_ involved. This wasn't their problem! They had their own countries, economics, politics, citizens, finances... _everything_ to worry about already! They didn't have to wait around and coddle him or take care of him...

He had noticed how none of his family really wanted to directly look at him. He started noticing it only after everything had calmed down and Russia was definitely confirmed to have left. He noticed that despite the attention he was getting - which he was sure he didn't deserve – they wouldn't linger their eyes too long on him.

He touched the breathing apparatus on his face. It was probably that. That thing that clung to his face was causing the issue. When Arthur turned and left the room to make final arrangements for them to leave, Canada reached behind his head and started pulling on the strap.

America turned to catch his brother trying to work the straps off.

"Hey hey hey, what are you doin' Matt?"

"Taking this off." Canada started to wiggle it to and fro, and he at last undid a strap that held it firmly in place. He pulled it up and off his face. "Don't need it anymore."

Alfred looked bothered and he reached out, taking the mask. "Matt, you kinda-sorta _do_ need this right now. I mean, the doctor put it on you and-"

"S'fine see?" Canada gestured to himself. "I'm fine. I don't need that. I'm alright."

"... But your breathing..."

"Nope! Fine," He took a deep breath to prove it. It was a lot harder to do than he thought, and he resisted the urge to cough. "See?"

America was looking at him dubiously, and despite knowing what Canada needed, not knowing how to react to the situation was keeping him from taking any actions. His mind whirred on how to deal with the issue.

Matthew put his hands down at either side of him, levered himself off of the bed and onto his own two good feet. How long had it been since he was up and walked around? Something that hadn't just been brief? Or wasn't just for going to the bathroom? It certainly felt like forever.

This is when Alfred stood, disregarding the mask and putting a hand on Canada's shoulder.

"... Matthew... Sit down, 'kay?"

"Nope," Canada chirped a little too cheerfully and he brushed the hand off. "I'm feeling a lot better, Al. A lot. I promise. I think the worse I felt was way before this an-"

"So the whole stopping-breathing thing we should just forget?"

"... I _didn't say _that. I mean, I'm better now so -"

"- And the fact you lost fifty-bajillion gallons of blood means nothing?" America accused more than asked.

"Don't exaggerate. I didn't lose 'fifty-bajillion' gallons of blood. It was _just_ a nosebleed and -"

Alfred's eyebrow arched. "Just a nosebleed? Dude Matt, you looked like you had been _shot_. I thought that someone had been _murdered_."

"You watch too many forensic shows..."

"... And I mean, you collapsed! It wasn't that long ago Mattie."

"I _just_ want to stand up for a bit, Alfred," he sounded exasperated. " I highly doubt," he gestured hotly, "Me _standing_ is going to do anyone harm. Is it?"

Alfred looked slightly affronted. "Oh get off it Matt. You need to lay down for a while."

Canada rolled his eyes. "Oh, what have I been doing then? Trying to ride a rodeo bull?"

"Oi. Don't make fun of rodeos. Those are kick-ass, _and_, you should be laying _down_. You've expended a lot of energy Matt! And the doctor told you to lay down!"

"I don't _care_ what the doctor said. I just want to walk around a little!"

Alfred's eyebrows furrowed. "Come _on_ Mattie. Grow up a little would ya? Just lay down. It's not going to kill you. There's nothing interesting around here anyway. Just doctory-crap. So lay down. Get some re-"

"No. Stop. Suggesting that. I am _fine_. I feel _better_. How many times do I have to press it through your thick American skull? I'm _fine_. I'm _quite_ sure that a walk isn't going to kill me," Canada interrupted, starting to grow frustrated with his brother.

America's face was darkening, and he moved to grab onto Canada's good wrist with his own good hand. "You're not going anyway. Besides, you're coming to my place, and that's probably in a few minutes."

"Let go of me," Canada wriggled his hand. "Come on Al."

"Hell to the fucking no."

"I don't need someone to tell me what to do."

"Clearly you do."

"I don't _need_ someone to be watching over me!"

"Uh. Yeah. You do."

"I don't _want_ someone watching over me! Let go Al! Just let me go for my walk, you _hoser_!"

"I will _never_ understand what that means, and, why Matt? Why? Is it the same reason why you refuse to tell us when anything is wrong? Why you don't want someone to be here with you?"

Canada just wriggled his wrist more in his brother's grasp, but America just wasn't having it. "Let go..."

"No Matt. Come on. You _do_ need someone here. I know you do. _You_ know you do. I also know that you're probably _lying_ when you say you feel better in hopes that we'll leave you alone. Am I right?"

"Al..."

America shook his head. "Come on Matt. Tell me the truth. Are we not good enough? Well? Is that it? Have you been in trouble before in the past, and maybe we weren't there to help you? Is that what happened? I... I mean, I don't _understand_ why you're so adverse to _telling_ us things... Why don't you want us to be here?"

Canada looked at his brother. "Al... I don't think you're not good enough..."

"Well it sure feels that way. I know you Mattie. I really do. There is no way in fucking _hell_ you didn't know about what was happening with your government and yourself. No fucking way. But you didn't say anything? How many times have you been to the meetings knowing this was happening? How many?"

Matthew didn't want to talk about it, so he started to struggle more against his brother's unwavering grasp. "That has nothing to do with this. It's not their iss-"

"Of course it's our issue! We don't _only _talk about our countries and intra-country proposals and relations! We also talk about problems or other shit that goes on _because_ we're nations! You know, the issues that come with _being_ a country? And believe me, there's no-one else you can go to about a problem like that other than another nation!"

"It's not their issue! It's _fine_! I can deal with this myself. This... This isn't related to that, okay Al? I'm just sick. This has _nothing_ to do with the government. I was dealing with it on my own. Everything is going f-"

"Fine enough that it's been four months since you've received a paper acknowledgment of your existence?"

"_Drop it Alfred right now,"_ His voice was so tight, that he sounded on the verge of tears, or of lashing out at his brother.

"Why do I have to find out the hard way? Why? I don't _get_ it Mattie! When disasters hit me, you are _first_ on the scene. You come to me when I need it the most. You are always there for me one-hundred percent. You do things that – damnit Matt – you really don't have to do. Why don't _I_ get that same luxury of doing that for _you_?"

"Nmng... You... You just _can't_ Al..."

He repeated. "Am I not _good_ enough?"

"You're _too good_!" Canada belted, voice cracking.

"I... Huh?"

"You're too fucking good Al! All of you! Dad... Papa.. You... You're all _too good_. You're doing m-more than enough. I don't want yo-you to help because I... I don't deserve it! You have more important things to f-focus on than me! Just go home Al..." Canada's head bowed. "Please... I can deal with this myself..."

America's anger had deflated, but the determination remained firm. "Hey... Matt. Come on Matt..." He ushered Matthew backward then made him plop back onto the bed.

"... Alfred... I just want to..."

"... Go for a walk. I promise, when we get back to my place, and settle down, then we'll go for a walk. But right now, I gotta talk to you." America sat down next to Canada; he spoke, "Why do you think you're not good enough?"

He put his hand on Matthew's back in the most comforting manner he could muster.

"You have more important things to deal with right now, than _me_." Canada's face was in his hands.

"Ppft. That's like, the definition of you being not good enough. That isn't a _why_ Matt. That doesn't tell me anything." He rubbed his back twice.

"... Just... You need to -"

"Ugh. Matt. You are _so_ stubborn. Seriously. I dunno why England sees you as a perfect little angel all of the time, but you're _just_ as stubborn as me. I think you're worse. Know why? 'Cause when I'm stubborn, I'm just stubborn. When you're stubborn? You convince yourself it's the truth. When it's _not_, Mattie."

"But it is tru-"

"Hey. Woah. I'm speakin' here. Not your turn yet. Listen. You can believe that crap all you want. Nothing I can do to change it, really. BUT," he gestured. "You are trying to not be an inconvenience. You've been like that since you were... Since... Okay, since forever. I got away with a lot of stuff because of that. Which was totally awesome at the time..." He paused. "... Anyway! Not the point! The point _is _–"

He looked over at Canada, who was still looking away, but his head jerked slightly towards Alfred from between his fingers.

"- Is that... You will be ten times the inconvenience for us if you push us away. I'm not joking. You're going to cause a lot more problems if you just keep _doing_ this, Matt. You rejecting and refusing is like, an insult." He tried to explain, in a way for such a Canadian heart to understand. "Don't you get it? By you telling us to go home? You're causing way more problems than if we stayed."

"... I do-don't me-mean..."

"Of _course_ you don't. So. Let us do what we want. We're going to make you better. If you want something? Ask. But never tell us to go away because it'd 'inconvenience' us if we stayed. And _never_ say that you don't fucking _deserve_ it."

"I... I..."

Alfred sighed. "Guh. This is way too serious for me. I don't like seriousness. Dude. If you try to push us away, I am going to noogie you _so_ fucking hard that your grandchildren will feel it."

"..."

There was a long pause. A choked sort of weak laugh sounded from the man sitting beside America.

"... Alfred...?"

"... Hmn hmn?"

"Th-that doesn't make any sense."

Alfred just laughed and put his arm around Matthew's shoulder. "Anyway. Matt, just let us do what we got to right now. And don't argue. I will give you that noogie if you do argue, so you know. That wasn't a bluff."

"..."

Alfred sighed and patted Canada's shoulder from where he had his arm around him.

This was going to be difficult. His speech seemed to have affected Matthew for now, but he wasn't sure how long that was going to hold. His brother was insufferably selfless sometimes. It was good in a way, but it was very bad for the situation they were in.

They sat that way for some time. Alfred didn't care that it was so quiet, or that Matthew hadn't really responded to what he said. Because he knew that Canada heard what he said, and he knew that Matthew took it to heart. All he cared for, himself, at that moment, was that Canada would calm down again.

It took a little time, but soon enough Canada's breaths had evened, however wheezing they were, and he looked less rebellious and much more sober than before.

He decided use this time to properly turn to his brother, focusing on the wheezes of short breaths that weren't quite getting all the oxygen that Matthew needed.

He let go of Matthew's shoulder, picked up the mask he had taken off and pressed it to Matthew's face with a sort of dopey smile.

"Methinks you still need this Matt-Matt."

"... Oh don't start the nickname thing again." Canada begrudgingly took the mask away from Alfred, and was fumbling to strap it back in place.

Alfred helped Matthew out as much as possible, and once the mask was strapped back on he smirked at his brother the best he could. Despite the apparatus on his face making him look a thousand times sicker than he did without it.

"Why not, Mattie-Matt-Matt."

"Al... 'M warnin' you..."

"What are you gunna do? Beat me up? Huh? Pound me? Hmn? Give me a good ol' one-two?" America teased, standing up with a slight wince in front of his brother. He gestured with his good hand, in a fist. "Gunna 'pow' me to the moon?"

"Alfred..." Canada warned.

"What 'cha gunna do Mattie-Matt-Matt-Matt-Mattehhh!"

_Whumph_. A pillow hit Alfred square in the face and plopped on the floor. America blinked in surprise at his brother, who was cackling.

Alfred threatened, "Oh you are _so_ dead for that."

"Yeah? Bring it on. This is what you get for not letting me go for a walk."

Alfred's eyebrows rose and he bent over carefully to picked up the pillow. "Them fightin' words?"

"Hell yeah."

"You're _on_."

England was stressing, walking back to Matthew's room (and Alfred's too, if one really thought about it) still as stressed as before. He had a lot to deal with, not to mention the catalyst for all this - A depressingly ill Matthew, with no comfort in knowing if he'd just be okay in the first place if they left. Everything felt like a gamble, and since Russia left, he had felt nothing but a cold chill of anxiety and dread.

His hand hovered over the doorknob while he read over a piece of paper in his hand, but he stopped at the sounds from inside the room. It sounded like... shouting? Wheezing? He couldn't say for sure, but he heard Canada give a shout and then America did so shortly afterwards.

He thrust the door open, "What is going o-"

The words died.

Alfred was doing his best to hold his brother down on the bed, using his arm with his bad hand, but his shoulder and elbow were pinning Matthew down to the bed. His other hand was attacking Canada's head ruthlessly, mussing up his air in all directions. Canada was laughing uproariously, wiggling and squirming, his legs kicking and every so often a few wheezes would break out.

England watched in dumbfounded silence at the doorway as Matthew groped with his hand on the mattress, took a hold of a disregarded pillow, and 'whumped' his brother clean in the face.

This earned Matthew an extra noogieing from his elder brother.

Arthur's mouth worked to say something but... No words came. The brothers didn't so much as notice their father-figure standing at the doorway with his peice of paper that detailed things that he wanted to discuss with them.

He tried again to speak... But let a breath of air blow through his bangs. He smirked slightly and backed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

Sometimes it was better to wait.

. . .

Alfred's forehead leaned against the window of the car, watching the blurry blackness of the world pass around them. It was dark? Already? Or was it already morning? It seemed that the days were just turning into undecipherable blurs. He watched streetlight after streetlight pass, until his eyes didn't want to focus anymore, and they turned into blended streaks of light that invaded his vision.

He pried his face away from the window, and sighed, leaning back.

He looked at Matthew, who was curled in his seat, leaning heavily onto his brother, his head just under his brother's arm, as it was protectively around him.

England was up front, driving. France was in the passenger's seat, quiet. Very. Quiet. America couldn't blame him. Heck, he wanted to toss the man out of the moving car himself. Knowing that the guy stupidly led _Russia_ to Mattie was a deed punishable by refusing his involvement.

Though, that didn't happen. It might have had to do with Canada refusing for France to be punished, but that didn't stop England from tracking him down, and reaming him out so viciously that America was _sure _Francis' ears were still ringing from the verbal assault.

Alfred pulled his brother closer and sighed, leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling. His head came up in surprise, however, when the car pulled to a stop.

"We're here," England stated, unbuckling his seatbelt, "If the American flag and blatant American themes everywhere have _anything_ to say about it."

Sure enough, they were indeed at America's household. This caused America's mood to perk, and he smiled, looking down at Canada who was buried into his side. "We're here, Mattie. Wake up, bro."

The car jogged as the front doors opened and slammed shut. The door on Canada's side opened, and France leaned his head in. "L'Amerique... I can take mon petite inside..."

America shot him a dirty glare, but as they already had gone through with the _same_ argument before they had gotten in the car in the first place, it was still clear that Alfred just couldn't carry Canada with his hand or abdomen the way they were.

So he just wrinkled his nose and nodded once before helping Francis get a good grip on his brother.

It was a quiet affair getting settled into the household.

America unlocked the door, and Matthew was carried bridal-style by his self-proclaimed Papa. Alfred told England where the kitchen was, and he followed France up the flight of stairs to his bedroom.

Alfred did have a guest room. He did have one of those rooms with the frilly trimmings and the frank quaintness that came with being a guest room, he did. But he decided against it. The guest room was small, un-homey, and it had a small bed.

His room, however, had a king-sized bed, was furnished and decorated in the most comfortable way possible. And _that_ was where he wanted his brother. Not in some stuffy guestroom.

He got France to put the still-slumbering Matthew down on the bed, and shooed him out of the room viciously.

England came into the room after that, hefting what Alfred could only assume was something that would provide Canada with the oxygen he needed beside the bed.

The mask that was on Matthew's face was gone, but instead replaced with the thin, almost unnoticeable tubes that went straight into Matthew's nose. They, however, didn't lessen the image that Canada looked deathly ill, but were far less clunky than the oxygen mask. It was easier to look at.

The device and the apparatus on Matthew's face were hooked together, and England helped America get all settled down for bed.

America changed quickly into new clothes, and managed to actually change Matthew into new clothes as well; something comfortable and ridiculously soft. He decided that every time Canada had been changed into something new, it just wasn't very comfortable. So he got his best pajamas and got England's help in shoving Matthew into them.

His brother was so exhausted, that he pretty much slept through it all, save for a few mumbles and sounds here and there.

When that was said and done, and Matthew was tucked into one side of the bed, slumbering quietly, England turned to his wakeful son.

"Right. Now... I think it's best for sleep to occur."

"Hell yeah," America rubbed one of his eyes.

"Now, I assume I can take the guest room?" England inquired, having turned away from Alfred and was curiously looking through his drawers, seeing if there was anything _he_ could borrow.

"Yeah. Go ahead. Frog-butt gets the living room floor, by the way," he added darkly.

England grunted his approval and pulled out a pair of pajama bottoms. He got no objection from Alfred, so he put it over his arm. "And where will you be sleeping...?"

"In here."

England glanced at him. "In here?"

"Yeah. In here."

"In a chair or-"

"No. In here. In bed."

England saw how Canada was deliberately placed off to one side in the rather massive bed. It was huge, and it did seem to have enough room. But was Alfred really sure that he wanted to share a bed with his ill brother?

"Are you _quite_ sure?"

To answer his question, America's foot was already on the bed, and he was lifting the covers, starting to slip in beside Canada. "Huh? Yeah. Positive."

"Well, I mean..."

"Hey, if 'm in here with him? Then I'm the first to know if stuff happens," America said, quietly, pulling off his glasses and putting them on a side table. He yawned. "And besides, I'll be right here. Nothing can happen to Mattie if 'm here with him."

England gave a soft sigh, and smiled. "Alright. I don't disagree."

America laid back on his side, reached towards Matthew and started to tug him closer. The sick nation mumbled when he was being tugged, but otherwise did not argue against the movement. Alfred pulled his brother closer to him, and when satisfied, he pulled the sheets properly over them both.

He looked up when he felt a creak and the bed dip. Arthur had sat on the edge.

"Ya need something?"

"Mn... no. I was just remembering."

"Remembering?"

"Ah, yes. When you both were relatively small, you shared the same bed," England explained, softly.

America listened, but made no effort to sit up or change his position from where he was laying. "The bunk beds?"

"Ah, no. You both used to be so small, that you could both fit on one bed. It was a little later I decided that you both needed your own space and got the bunk beds built. I figured being crammed together on the same bed was no fun."

America remembered. He also remembered that they ended up sleeping in the same bed anyway after England and France bode them goodnight, and had done so for years.

"I was just remembering, once, you had come down with some sort of flu."

"... Oh?" Clearly, America didn't remember this.

"Oh. Yes. It was terrible. You had gone out and played in the rain. At first I was worried it was something wrong with your colonies, but then I learnt it was the flu that had been passing around... So you were miserable and bed-ridden and sporting quite the fever."

Probably nothing to what Matthew had 'sported' a while before.

"Heh, really?"

"Oh yes. You know what Matthew did? He refused to go out and play," England recalled. "He asked me to put you in his bunk, the bottom one, and he stayed with you all day. He tended to you, really. Made it his mission to make you better."

"Hahaha, did he now?"

"Oh yes. And when night came, even though I tried to tell him it was a bad idea, he climbed into bed with you and stayed with you all night." He smirked.

"Ppftt. Sounds like Mattie, all right."

England got up off the bed. "I was just reminded... Anyway. Alfred, get a good rest. And... Make sure Matthew does too, alright?"

"Roger that. Hero on the job."

"Right, right. Of course."

England turned from the brothers. He had resisted the urge, the split-second urge to do as he had done that night when Canada refused to leave his bed-ridden brother's side: To brush back their hair, and place a tender kiss on each of their foreheads before bidding them goodnight.

They might have been too old for that gesture, England knew, and America would certainly not appreciate it very much, but he still quietly flicked the light off and pulled the door shut behind him, slowly.

He saw, before the door shut completely, America tug Canada toward himself, tucking his brother's head under his chin and wrapping an arm around him before nuzzling into bed to sleep. He witnessed Canada's soft sigh, and his head burying out of sight as he accepted the protection that was offered to him.

The door shut with a click.

At least England was thankful, in the turmoil, fear, dread and panic of the situation around them and before them, that at least one thing could be confirmed as a constant: America's unwavering devotion, protection and love of his brother. That familial bond between them.

This was enough, as he walked to the guest room, to keep Arthur from dreading the discussions that had to follow the next day.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Woo hoo! I managed to update four chapters since my weird hiatus within a less-than-two-week basis between each! Let's hope this keeps up, eh? XD And this chapter... Was fun to write. It may not have been so action-packed as the last chapters were, but it was _nessisary_. XD So yes.

Brotherly broness of bros.

And say thanks to my friend for being hilarious and being the one to think up the "Mattie-Matt-Matt" nicknaming things. XD I thought it was brilliant. Thank him for that gem! Hehehe.

And so I guess we can say...

... Let the story begin? XD Hmmn...

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**Chapter 15 Preview :** The awesome-me has hijacked this preview. Because the awesome me is so freekin' awesome. Jus' so you know, whatever is happenin' it can't stay between just those guys. Nuh-uh! No. Definitely not! Kesesese.

Gah! Prussia, leave my previews alone.

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Thanks for Reading! Read and REVIEW please! Every little bit helps and goes towards making me know what you guys like! PLEASE read and review! It helps me know that people are reading still, and especially now.

You guys are SO COOL. So awesome. So very awesome. Canada wants to hug all of you.


	15. You Have Awesome Connections

**Disclaimer of this Chapter : **Do I really have to warn about swearing still? I think it's a no-brainer. Alfred plus stress equals swearing. Prussia plus just existing equals swearing. Sorry folks.

**Ownership** : If you haven't gotten by now that I don't own Hetalia or any of it's characters, I'm really flattered.

**Important Note : **ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and are not making fun of/slandering or putting down any nation mentioned or in question. These are based off of characterizations and not the real-life countries involved. Thanks.

This chapter was also beta'd by the fantastic Ophelion. Without her I'd be a mess. Proof is in the old chapters. I was a mess.

And... Woo! Chapter. Sorry it was late. Being sick is not fun. Next chapter soon.

FOUR-HUNDRED REVIEWS YOU GUYS. I seriously laughed at the person who claimed the 400th review who just... wanted to claim it. Congratulations. You made me giggle.

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**Chapter 15 Summary : **The epic and awesome me cannot stay out of this! It'd be stupid. And un-awesome! So I come in and save the day! Kesesese! I'm so awesome it hurts.

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**- Chapter 15 - You Have Awesome Connections - **

France paced as England spoke to the phone that sat on the kitchen table, set on speaker.

"- That's why I believe you're the first person we should tell," England explained, sitting himself down. "I couldn't think of anyone else."

"_I'm honoured that you think I'll be of help,"_ Germany's low voice boomed despite the quiet setting of the speaker volume, "_But are you sure that these are affairs that I need to be a part of?_"

"Yes. I'm quite sure." England sighed. "I'll explain it to you when you _come_ here."

France flitted to the table and put his hands down. "Mon petite is very ill! Extremely ill, Germany! And it is not either his country nor a physical illness! We 'ave no idea what to do!"

_"I understand that he must be in a bad position but-_"

"What else can we do? We cannot leave it to ourselves!" France wailed, hand on his chest. "It is only but making 'im worse! L'Amerique suspects it is 'is government but we need 'elp! Mon mignon! 'e was _bleeding_!"

_"A... ah..._" Germany faltered on the other end of the line. "_Bleeding? Is it really that severe…?"_

"Francis! I said keep that to your bloody self till Germany got here! I didn't want to overload the man with information!"

"B-but! The Canadian Government! Did you not say that you and l'Amerique thought they were _forgetting_ 'im! I think that is very important to say! We cannot leave it out! 'e needs to know!"

_"How is his state currently?_" Germany interjected hurriedly.

"Asleep. And... He's being fed oxygen, Alfred reported a fever in the middle of the night last night but it seems to be okay..." England trailed off. "Germany. Ludwig. This is serious. We need an outside view. I'm thinking of bringing this in front of the whole bloody country meetings if we very well have to. But you're close by and still at the conference hall. We need _help_. It's obvious that we can't do this alone."

_"I... I understand. I'll come as soon as possible. I hope that Italy's involvement will not bother you._"

"Italy...? Is he still-... Ah, never mind. Yes. I don't mind. More the merrier."

_"I will arrive shortly._"

"Thank you," England said gratefully. "Thank you."

"_Mn."_

And the line died.

France looked at England as he hung up the call. "I 'ope 'e can 'elp, l'Angleterre. This is mon mignon. I am afraid that... If we do not do something soon..."

"Don't say it," England warned.

"... 'e might die."

A hand slammed on the table.

. . .

White flakes fluttered down and over the figure. They were light, soft; they clung delicately to his golden waves and caught themselves in his eyelashes like subtle sparkles. They brushed against his shoulders and lined his toque. His hand, which was outstretched, received a light dusting as a soft smile was brought to his purple eyes.

A quiet air had surrounded him. There was no wind, and no real cold; nothing but the snow that slowly fell to the ground beneath him, and onto his hand.

He breathed out, not feeling the cold that he should be feeling; instead, he feels wholly relaxed. His breath caught the snowflakes and they blustered out of his palm and danced in the temporary wind, before slowly falling to the ground.

It was snowing.

Canada breathed out again, his breath in an icy mist that he didn't feel. He'd have to ask America to go out and walk in it. Snow was just too pretty; it made him feel so relaxed sometimes.

Relaxation was something he wanted; though as to where he exactly was right then - deep in a dream? - he wasn't sure. He did know that he needed it, however. Calmness. Relaxation. This was exactly what he wanted and needed.

So he stood there, catching more of the pearly white flakes, and ignoring the black storm cloud that was re-gathering behind him.

He'd ignore it for now, and just enjoy this time to be calm... and relax.

. . .

Alfred watched the snow gently fall in the dim morning light outside. The sun was just beginning to rise, and so he observed the gentle flakes pass by his window and through the beam of light just peeking beyond the horizon.

He sighed quietly and shifted, the sheets rumpling. He rested his hand down and on Matthew's head, which was buried against his chest as he breathed slowly in sleep. He averted his eyes from the snow and toward his brother.

For just a second he mused if the Canadian's presence brought the dusting of snow, but then he remembered the season.

Canada made a light sound in his throat and America paused, looking down at his brother, wondering if this meant he was going to wake up... But the Canadian let loose a sigh, shifted, and re-buried his head where it was.

"S'okay Mattie," Alfred said quietly and carefully, but surely Canada could feel his rumbling speech through his chest. He _was_ using it as a pillow, after all. "You don't gotta wake up yet."

He'd be lying if he said he didn't notice the warmth that Matthew was giving off.

"It's just not fair Matt," Alfred mumbled, pushed a few annoying strands of hair from Canada's face. "It's not fair to you at all."

Alfred lay his head back and moved his arm so it was half-around Matthew as he looked out the window again, watching a thickening wave of snow bluster down. America watched it, once again musing with thoughts of Canada being the one to bring snow wherever he went, when something hit him.

Smiling, America's blue eyes darted back to Canada's closed ones. "Dude!" He said quietly, but still excitedly - One had to wonder why exactly America felt the need to exuberantly talk to him _while_ trying to keep him _asleep_. "Matt! You said you wanted to go for a walk, right?" He grinned. "Then how about in the snow? Dude, that'd be so cool. Right after breakfast."

He'd also be lying if he said Canada didn't love the snow. Matthew _adored_ it.

Thinking that he was being particularly awesome and heroic, Alfred rubbed Canada's back with some semblance of joy. He knew that would be a nice treat, and heck, it'd stave off some of the fever that Matthew was beginning to sport. It'd kill two birds with one stone!

He continued to be joyful about his smartness when a loud buzz went off.

Startled and looking around wildly, America tried to locate the source of the constant buzzing. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a bag - possessions of Canada's that they more or less shoved in a bag - that was _vibrating_. He swore under his breath when it showed no intention of stopping.

Swearing to himself, he tried to unhinge from Matthew enough so he could slip his leg out of the bed, reaching to a great stretched length to get his foot... just... in... the... AHA! With his foot hooked in the handle of the bag, he brought it to himself and tore it open. Dropping the bag and the rest of its contents to the floor, he flipped open the phone.

_1 Message Received_

America grunted about how ridiculous having such an extreme buzzer for a simple _text message_ was, and changed the settings. It seemed his dear brother set it to 'buzz indefinitely' during certain hours. Apparently Matthew didn't like missing anything.

But why the heck would Matthew care if he missed one simple _text message? _It wasn't like it was going to be from someone _important_.

America swallowed. _Oh_...

He frowned and looked at his brother. He was going to close the phone when a thought came to him. What if it _was_ from his brother's government? He wasn't sure what he'd do about it if it _was_, but he definitely had to check.

He opened the message, which read:

_'Yo Birdie,_' America's eyebrows quirked at this. ''_Tis me, the epical awesomest fantastic Prussia.'_ Oh. Gilbert. _'I thought I'd surprise ya, kid. I'm really near your place right now. Fucking awesome, right? How about I come over and we can play the newest game in zombie extermination! Via moi. That's right. See what I did there? I put FRENCH in that shit. That's right. French. Praise me, for I can speak__e__th your language. Anywhoozle, message me back, yo? I'm on my way now. Kesesese._

_ Epical, awesome, fantasteriffic Prussia (Fuck Yeah).'_

Well, Alfred could safely say that it was not a message from Matthew's government - that right then and there made him want to close the phone and forget about it - but a little bit of consciousness prodded at his mind. The one that usually told him to be considerate of other people's feelings and how things affected _them_, even if it wouldn't affect _him_. The sort of feeling that Alfred kinda-sorta ignored on a regular basis.

It told him that he probably should stop Prussia from going to Canada's. Because... Well, he wasn't really _there_ anymore. It was a bit pointless. Also, it'd probably bug Mattie knowing that Gilbert was alone at his house. Though probably for some silly reason like 'not being there to serve him' rather than 'oh god my house'.

What a weirdo.

With rocket-finger speed, America texted Gilbert back. '_Hey, don't go over to Mattie's.'_

Satisfied that it was enough, America laid back, only to find that the response came within a minute. Clearly, Gilbert had practice with thumb-texting.

_'That's a kinda-sorta weird message, kid. Gotten into the habit of using the 3rd person? Hahahaha. Look, I know you're unawesomely sick. But this is totally the reason why I want to come! I intend to use my sheer AWESOMENESS to make you - you poor, poor, Canadian you - feel better! I'm doing you an epic favour! Of awesomeness. Kesesese'_

Something rippled in Alfred. That felt like a challenge. Did Gilbert think that Matthew didn't already have someone there to do the 'awesome' thing and look after him? Jeeze! Just who _was_ the big brother after all? Feeling somewhat insulted, he typed his message back.

_'Prussia. This totally isn't Mattie, dude. This is Alfred. His big brother. His HEROIC big brother. His heroic big brother that's doing a good job using his BETTER awesomeness to take care of his little brother! And besides. Mattie isn't at his house. He's at -my- HEROIC house. So there._

_ The United States of Fucking America_

He sent that, feeling satisfied with himself. The next text message predictably came. When Alfred got bored with the exchange, he'd end it. But for now, he continued on with it.

_'Okay. Weird. Why do you have his phone? And why is Mattie over at your place? I thought he was sick.'_

Alfred sat up slightly, Matthew mumbled and before America started his reply, he tugged his brother closer so he was more comfortable, and began to thumb-type again.

_'None of your business. Go back home... Or... your house... or... wherever you live. A cardboard box? Whatever.'_

He smirked at his self-claimed witty message and sent it with vigour, sniggering out loud at the mental image of Prussia living in a box that was labelled 'mein haus'. Keeping that amusing mental image, he accepted the returned message gladly.

_'Come on man. Don't be such a fuckin' spoil-sport. You know, that's pretty un-awesome of you. What did you do anyway? Kidnap Birdie in his vulnerability? Trying to do your Manifest Desti-shit or whatever?'_

America's mood dropped a few notches and he glared at the screen. First of all, he hated it when people made fun of 'Manifest Destiny', especially Prussia. There was _nothing_ wrong with it! But second of all, and most importantly, Prussia just heavily implied that he was doing something wrong, that he was taking _advantage_ of Mattie when he was _sick_! That was not cool.

Just then, Matthew's intake of breath sounded particularly wheezed and Alfred felt a flit of anger at Prussia and his unfounded accusation.

Sure, at any other time he'd know that the man was joking. But he didn't appreciate that joke. Definitely not right then. It was _not_ okay.

His response was short and clipped, but he still typed properly.

_'Not. Funny. Fuck off. Matthew's really sick right now and can't be alone for even a minute.'_

He closed the phone and tossed it to the side. He didn't know why Matthew even liked Gilbert. Sure, he was a cool enough guy sometimes. And he was tech-savvy, especially with cameras. But he was kind of a jerk-ass.

He heard the phone beep - he turned off that stupid buzzer - and ignored it. He pushed the phone away more and lay back down on his side.

Matthew mumbled in his sleep; his hand had, at some point, clenched Alfred's pyjama top, and it was tensing and relaxing as he dreamed. Kind of like a cat, or a kitten. America snuffed an amused breath of air through his nose and, reaching out with his free hand - and ignoring the beep of the phone again - he brushed more of Canada's hair out of his face and felt his forehead.

His fever was definitely returning; though maybe 'returning' was a bad word for it. So far it didn't seem to be the crippling one that had initially started all of this - the first indication of being ill. But it was a fever, and that didn't mean it couldn't change at any moment. Alfred brushed back Canada's hair more and tucked it behind his ear before withdrawing his hand.

"If it gets any worse I'll be sure to get you out and walking in that snow Matt."

He ended up turning off the phone after a few minutes; after it had beeped a few more times. He didn't want to deal with Gilbert, and he caught a glimpse of one of the messages, demanding what was wrong with 'Birdie' and for Alfred to 'answer my goddamned messages'. He just snorted and turned the cell off, laying back into the soft mattress and pillows.

He closed his eyes and pulled his brother close again. He didn't remember when he had dropped off in a light doze, but time slipped past him like it was nothing, and soon the sun rose into the sky in a mid-morning show of light.

It was the sound of gentle coughing that brought America back to the world of the wakeful, and sucked in a breath, sitting up blearily. Matthew's weight was gone, and coughing was heard beside him.

His head snapped to Matthew and he went to his side, putting a hand on his back and shuffling over so he was kneeling next to the Canadian.

"Hey... hey... Are you okay?"

Canada nodded, covering his mouth with the crook of his elbow and heaved few more coughs. It took a few seconds, but the coughs calmed and disappeared.

Matthew swallowed and smiled at his brother. "I'm okay," he finally answered. "Mouth feels dry."

Canada was handed a glass of water rather quickly from the nightstand, and he took a grateful draught from it, feeling the cooling liquid moisten his mouth and throat and making him feel altogether better.

Before he could express his gratitude, a hand was slipped onto his forehead and he blinked, staring up at it for a second, then at Alfred. He tilted his head in minor confusion.

"... Uh... Al...?"

Alfred clicked his tongue and he took the glass away from Canada. When he turned back though, he was beaming brightly as if the smile never had left his face. "Feel better Mattie? Did'ja know it was _snowing_ outside?"

"Snowing? Really? That's a little weird."

"Maybe not. Weather's been topsy-turvy lately," America reasoned cheerfully as he slid out of bed. "How do you feel? Hot? Cold? Throat still dry? Sick? Wanna eat something?"

"Fine. No. No. Not anymore. No. And no thanks," Canada rattled off his answers with ease. He was fairly used to the concept of having to respond to gun-fire questions without a change to make the other man pause or repeat himself.

"Good but...?" Alfred was working off his pyjama top, "Not hungry?"

Canada leaned back slightly and nodded, pulling one of the soft blankets over himself again. He'd like to say he would like to eat whatever was put in front of him, but that'd be a lie. "Nope, not hungry," he confirmed.

America made some discontented noise, but Matthew for the most part ignored him and decided to focus on the snow that fell gently outside the window. The sight of it made him smile in delight.

Maybe snowstorms and blizzards were terrible and not very fun, and maybe having four feet of it on the ground and roads wasn't exactly what one would call a good time, but Canada still loved the white stuff when it fluttered past the window, catching stray beams of light and dusting everything like frosted sugar. It was something he'd always love.

He was torn away from admiring the snow when Alfred sat on the bed next to him, fully clothed, and he reached over and placed his hand back on his brother's forehead.

"Hmn... Why don't you want to eat?" America asked him when he withdrew his hand.

Canada put his own hand to his forehead, uncertain if he really did have a fever again. Not that he'd be able to tell by pressing his own hand there, but, he wanted to see. Also, America kept _doing_ that, over and over, and it was starting to bother him.

When he couldn't tell anything by doing it himself, he responded, "Just don't... want to eat," which _was_ technically true.

"Why don't you want to eat?" America tried again. "Not hungry?"

"Well..." To say he wasn't hungry wouldn't exactly be the truth anymore.

"Mattie," America warned; he still looked pleasant but the tone held a threat behind it, and a warning to remember the conversation that they had previously.

Canada _knew_ that, he knew that it wasn't a good idea to hide stuff, but it was so ingrained in his nature. For him to live out of his personal pattern was hard enough, but to change behaviour was even harder. Despite this, he forced down some Canadian stubbornness and shook his head. "I'm hungry, it's just that..."

"That?"

"My stomach feels queasy. Not... Not _bad_," Matthew admitted, putting up a hand in defence. "Just... queasy. It felt like this on the first day, in the beginning, and we both know how _that_ turned out in the end."

Him hurling in front of his brother several times was definitely still fresh enough in their memories.

"Oh...?" A pause. "... Oh. Well... Um... hmn..."

America turned his head to think, hand stroking his chin.

"I just don't want to risk it," Canada reasoned.

Alfred nodded in understanding, which Matthew was thankful for. Now that he was feeling more coherent, he wasn't sure how much he'd appreciate being forced to eat when he wasn't confident his stomach would be able to hold any of it down. At least he didn't have to worry about America dragging him out somewhere to eat some greasy monstrosity that someone decided to deem a 'salad'.

He greened at the memory and shoved it out of his mind before he really _did_ revisit that experience a little _too_ vividly.

"Hey, I have a brilliant idea," America's self-praising voice helped push the thought out of Matthew's mind entirely.

"Oh...? That would be?"

"Let's go out."

Canada's stomach dropped. Oh ye gods. Was this going to become a repeat of what happened before? Was this going to be some sort of torturous revisit of a few days previous? Being dragged out and about in the weather to experience greasy foods of doom? Not that... the first meal had been bad. It was actually quite delicious, and the maple hot chocolate was to _die_ for. It was just too much.

This oddly made him remember he never actually finished it all, and recalled it was still in a bag in his car. His nose wrinkled. That stuff may be putrid by now.

America had no idea what Matthew's inner-monologue was about, and his expression faltered at Canada's own expressions morphing from looking rather displeased, to ill, to somewhat content, then to disgust.

"... Uh... uh..." Alfred fumbled with his hands. "Not... a good idea?"

"Wha...?" Canada snapped out of his thoughts. "What?"

"We don't have to go out at all. It's just before, you wanted to go for a walk, and the snow is really light and dry and not slippery so I _thought_-"

Canada laughed. "Oh! Oh! Yes. I'd love to go for a walk," he shifted so he could get up, "I'm sorry, I was just afraid that you wanted to drag me out to eat somewhere. I must be getting paranoid."

"What? No! Hey Mattie, you just said that you didn't think you could eat anything. Mind," he paused, "I do want to stop at a coffee shop..."

Matthew sighed.

"- But!" America defended, "For me. God, sometimes I just want a good cup-o-joe. You know, real American brewed coffee by Americans for Americans; in this case, America _himself_. When we get there, and you want something, then it's the perfect place anyway!"

"Ah... Okay," Canada smiled, relieved. "I can deal with that. Do they have..."

"... Maple?" America predicted.

"Yes. Maple."

"Not sure. Maybe. We shall see." America got off of the bed and strode over to his drawers. "But first, you can't go walking around in pyjamas Mattie. I know they are warm and soft and heroic and all that," he chortled at his own words, "You need proper clothes."

"Augh... That's right," Canada dangled his legs off the side of the bed. "I keep forgetting. Man, I haven't worn proper clothes in a few days, haven't I? I sorta-kinda remember you and Dad getting me out of my damp clothes when he came to the car," Matthew sifted through his memory, "Then I've just been in and out of everything else."

"Yep."

"Did you guys take clothes from my place or...? If you didn't, I'm not sure what I can _wear_."

America turned and looked at his brother extremely flatly. "Dude Matt. We don't need to get that stuff."

Canada tilted his head. "Why...?"

America gestured to himself with his hands. "Just who is the only person in the world with the exact same measurements as you? And who is the only person in the world that you switched military uniforms with in World War Two and scared the shit outta England because he thought the heroic_ me_ was being meek? Hmn?"

Not to mention that they'd also scared 'the shit' out of the rest of the Allies because _Canada_ seemed to be acting loud and boisterous for once.

Canada laughed. "Ah. That's right."

"Right," America defended. "You're just going to wear mine. Which are cooler anyway. You always seem to wear _hoodies_. Do you _own_ anything besides a suit and a thousand hoodies?"

"Hoodies are comfortable."

"In the summer?"

"Even in the summer."

"That's just as messed up as wearing a scarf all year long..." came the absent comment as America dug through the massive amount of clothes hanging in his closet.

"Maybe it comes with being a northern country," Canada suggested with a shrug. "It doesn't bother me."

America resurfaced and tossed a few things to Matthew. He knew that Canada might have been more comfortable with a hoodie, but America was thinking long term. If, and hopefully only _if_, Matthew's fever got worse, then they had the ability to strip back or add on layers. So he gave Canada a t-shirt, a collared shirt, and a zip-up sweater-thing that went over all of it.

"My my my," Matthew commented, looking it over, "This isn't adorned with stars, red white and blue, or embroidered with the word 'liberty'," he teased.

America threw the pair of pants at Canada's head for that comment.

Soon Matthew was dressed up, and unhooked from the machine.

Canada looked at the device uncertainly and then to Alfred, setting down the apparatus that was hooked on his face with a frown. "Is it alright...?"

"Yeah. It's totally fine. The doctor said you didn't _have_ to be on that thing, like, twenty-four-seven, and he's even sure you don't need it anymore at all. It's just a precaution-whatever," was what was explained to him.

"Okay."

. . .

America slowly closed and locked the door behind him and stepped beside his brother. Before they set off, Alfred quickly scanned his eyes over him. Canada was wrapped up properly in a coat, gloves and a scarf. He also was put in nice warm boots for good measure. It may have been overkill, the snow was so bare and there was just a slight _dusting_ on the grass, but America thought it was impossible to be too safe when it concerned the current Matt.

He scanned his brother's face, seeing that his eyes were glassy and his skin slightly pale. The warmth of the still-present fever was evident in the slight flush in his cheeks in contrast to the rest of him, but he appeared to be well-enough regardless.

Alfred reached out and wrapped his arm around Canada's shoulder and he started them on their walk, Canada with his gloved hands pocketed in the jacket.

"Man," Alfred said, a puff of steam coming from his mouth. "It's sorta nippy."

"The temperature dropped. It's probably negative one or something," Canada reckoned.

"Dude. No _way_ it's negative one! That's way too flipping cold! I wouldn't let you walk around outside if it were that co-"

"Celsius."

"Wha... Oh." America snuffed disapprovingly. "Right. You use that weird system."

"It's not weird, and practically the rest of the world uses it too. It's more convenient."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"It is."

"Isn't."

"Is."

"Not."

"Is."

"Nope."

"Yes."

"Nuh-uh."

Canada laughed and punched America's shoulder with a weak hand. "Al! Stoppit!"

He got an evil smirk in return. "Nope."

"Oh Al. To think the things you are missing," Matthew replied, shaking his head in mockery of actual exasperation.

"Things? What things?" America quirked his eyebrow. "What? Like, maple leaves being stamped in the middle of the holy golden arches? Or weird temperature and 'centimetres' instead of inches? Oh! Spelling 'metER' with an 're' and not an 'er'?"

Canada laughed. "Exactly."

"Or weird things like _poutine_ and _bagged milk_."

"Hey, don't bash bagged milk. It's awesome and necessary in every Canadian household," Matthew reasoned. "And I _know_ you like poutine."

"Yeah, but bagged milk is _weird_."

Canada laughed again, but was interrupted by a fit of unwarranted coughs. America stopped abruptly and rubbed his brother's back with a slight frown until they subsided.

"Ah... sorry. The weather feels so dry here right now," he sniffed, his nose running due to the coughing and the cold. "Sorry."

"S'fine..."

He was handed a tissue and he blew his nose and stowed the tissue away in his pocket.

So they started up walking again, but America's hypersensitivity to Matthew's actions had started up again and he was watching his brother warily. Maybe he was on-edge, but hearing coughing was adding another problem on the already too-long list of symptoms Canada was displaying.

Canada was unaware of being watched, and walked contently on. He felt wobbly and uneven, maybe heated and slightly uncomfortable, his throat tugged in wanting to cough more again, but that was all able to be controlled by will-power alone, and so he pushed it away. He just focused on taking even steps and admiring the snow.

He closed his eyes for a moment and let out a breath. His intention was to admire the cool air and the soft flakes that he felt brushing against his cheekbones. Not:

"_Holy hell, Mattie_!"

A loud scuffle and something pounding the back of his neck and the small of his back stiffly.

He gave a cry of surprise and opened his eyes to look up at the worried expression of his brother. It took several seconds longer, and a few glances to either side of him, to realise -

"- I'm on the ground?"

"Oh jeeze Mattie don't _do_ things like that!" America said, ignoring the snow and kneeling so he could put his brother's head on his lap.

"What?" He shifted, but suddenly felt too weak to want to get up again. "What? Do what? What happened?"

"You closed your eyes and fell backward," America replied. "You know, you looked like you were playing the game of trust, but there really wasn't anyone there to trust to catch you."

"Wha...?"

"I caught you though." That explained the 'whumph' against his neck and the small of his back.

"..."

He fell? Really? He didn't remember that.

"What's wrong? Do you feel weird?"

Canada was still trying to get over the shock that he was walking one second, and on the ground the next, when America's hand pressed to his forehead. It felt cold. He shifted uncomfortably at its presence and pushed it away.

"Not now Alfred," he said, again attempting to push himself up, but his legs along with the rest of his body seemed to have given up.

America's concerned look after his hand withdrew was not on Matthew's mind, whose breathing hitched slightly in frustration.

"Mattie..."

"S'fine," he breathed, trying to push himself up, but Alfred's hand stopped him after a few seconds of his futile attempts. "Just... Augh," he grunted in frustration. "My legs and arms feel like noodles."

"Shit. I'll pick you up and take you home."

Canada looked up at America again. "What? No! Don't do that. I'm enjoying my walk."

"This is really fucking weird walking Mattie," America said flatly. "And if you're enjoying this, it's also really fucking weird."

"You can't pick me up! What about your hand? Or your stomach?" Canada countered.

"Who gives a shit about those right now, you just collapsed!"

"I'm okay. Give me a minute to breathe,"

A voice echoed down the street. "Oi! Hey! Oi!"

Canada and America turned their attention to a figure dashing towards them in the thickening snow.

"Who...?" America inquired, his eyebrow arching and his body instinctively bending slowly over Matthew in a form of protection.

Canada craned his neck, but was having trouble pushing himself up to see further; by the time he had a clear view, all he saw were shoes and legs. America was in the way.

"Oi! What's going _on_ here?"

"Gilbert?" Matthew blinked. "Is that you…?"

Prussia knelt down on the ground and his smug albino face showed itself when America backed off from his protective position. He had a lopsided, but distracted, grin on his face.

"Heya Birdie. 'Tis the epical awesome me."

Alfred snorted and his eyebrows were raised. "What the hell are _you_ doing here Prussia?" He half-accused. "Of all places."

Prussia forwent looking at the other man, though he graced him with a response, but was more-or-less addressing Matthew. "Long story. To tell you the end of it - don't worry the awesome me will tell you the beginning later - I was told by England that you two walked down this way, and I was hurrying by to catch up."

America let that go for now. He had more important things to ask than why an ex-nation was currently on the same street as them.

"Dude -" Prussia had also moved on from that subject. "- What happened? I may have just saw it happen. I was up the incline in the road," he gestured, "And I saw somebody fall. I thought it was some punk-ass kids slipping on ice or something. But then I got _closer..._"

"'M fine Gil," Matthew protested, trying again to sit up, but found he lacked the energy to do so.

"He's _not_ fine," America countered. "I'm going to take him home. Right now. He can't be out here anymore."

Prussia stood again, and to the side, though he was _definitely_ not showing any sort of _concern_. Aw hell no. That just wasn't awesome.

"No!" Matthew knew that this was futile, and he knew he had to go home, but he turned to Gilbert. "Gil, Alfred hurt his stomach and his hand. He _can't_ pick me up."

"Matt -"

"And I don't want him to tear or bruise or make something worse because he wants to pick me up and carry me home."

Alfred's tone turned warning, "Matthew..."

"I don't think it'll settle well with me if that happens."

"Mattie, there isn't really any other _option_."

Canada swallowed his pride and he looked up at the red-eyed ex-nation with seriousness. He knew there was no getting out of it anyway. "Gilbert, can _you_ do it?"

Silence fell. Alfred blinked. Canada had a pink flush on his face that had nothing to do with fever; instead, embarrassment, and Prussia was staring in frank befuddlement.

After a moment or two, Prussia pointed at his epic self. "Bwah? Me?"

Matthew just nodded.

"..." Gilbert looked at America, who shrugged, then looked back at Canada. His grin returned, baring all teeth. "You want the awesome-me to carry you?"

"... So Alfred doesn't have to..." Canada half-mumbled, his meekness returning.

"Kesesese! Sure!" Prussia got down again. "Al, help me out, man."

With some effort, and protests from Matthew to be sure that Alfred didn't upset any of his injuries, the Canadian man found himself situated on Prussia's back in a sort of piggy-back style.

Canada was flushing again in more embarrassment, his face just resting against the back of one of Prussia's shoulders, the white hair tickling the side of his face. Maybe this was why he was glad he wasn't so conscious when he was carried all those other times. He felt so stupid!

Prussia had his hands linked and he held Matthew firm, and instructed for Canada to have his own hands twined and wrapped around him for good measure. He cackled at how awesome he was to carry someone who was technically taller than him.

"Okay! Where to?"

"Ho-"

"Coffee shop," Canada got out before America could even so much as finish what he was going to say.

"Matt! No! No coffee shop. No. We are going _home_. That's final. Home. You know, where you need to be. In a bed. Resting."

Canada ignored him and spoke to Prussia. "He wanted to go to a coffee shop. That's where our destination was. He deserves it. I'm sorry to ask you to carry me, I'm probably really heavy, but can we...?"

Prussia looked at America, then glanced sideways at Canada, then looked at America again. "Sorry dude, but cute always wins over brawn." He cackled at the muffled ''m not cute', and gestured. "So! Coffee shop is that-a-way?"

America sighed. There was no winning some of these battles, was there? "Yeah. That way. But after we get some coffee, _to go_, we are going home."

"Kay..."

"Sure thing, guy! Kesesese!"

. . .

So the walk continued; albeit differently than before, but it still continued. The fluttering snow was getting thicker, but was in no threat of becoming dangerous. It just remained to be incredibly pretty, that's all.

Canada was still thoroughly embarrassed to be carried by Prussia, and kept his face were it was resting against the back of the man's shoulder. What a way to greet someone after not seeing them for a little while: by asking to be _carried_ to a coffee-shop of all places. At least the man wasn't showing signs that he noticed his weight at all. He was being carried as easily if he were a backpack.

America led the way, but obviously wanted to get it over with so they could go back home.

"Do you like the feel of my awesome _German muscles_?" Prussia said, turning his voice to a heavy 'sultry' German accent with the last few words.

Canada was just silent and he flushed more. Why did Gilbert have to make things more difficult and embarrassing? It was awkward enough having to hold onto the man's chest like that without the reminder of his 'German muscles'.

Prussia just gave his typical 'kesesese' and continued on walking.

Matthew didn't think the coffee shop was that far away, but it was starting to feel like it. Perhaps his view of time had been skewed due to being ill, but it felt like it was just... crawling...

In fact, everything felt rather like molasses while he was being carried by Gilbert. Like he was hypersensitive to everything that was going on around him and it was taking a long time for his brain to take it all in.

In a weird way, it was very relaxing and pretty.

Silence had only really fallen for a few minutes and Prussia broke it. "... Is he asleep?" He asked incredulously, trying to turn his head to see, but was having trouble doing so. "Already?"

"I think so..." Alfred approached them and brushed back some of Canada's hair. "Yeah... He's totally out of it. His fever's up again."

"Aw man, that is, like, so fucking uncool," Prussia said. "How about we turn around and jog back? You could lie and just say you got a coffee."

America shook his head. "Nah, the shop is just there," he pointed. "We can spare a minute to get something warm and then go back."

Not to mention that it'd be warmer inside the building and give them a chance to defrost before heading back.

Prussia spoke as they started up again. "So you know, Bruder and Feli are at your place now."

America looked at Gilbert, shocked. "What? Why are they there? Is that why you're here?"

Gilbert nodded, trying to ignore the warm breaths that scatted across the side of his neck. "Yep. After you were so un-fucking-awesome and stopped responding to me, Bruder got a phone call from England. Or was it before? Yeah… wait. Before. Anyway, he phoned me _after_ our 'conversation'saying that he was going with Feli to your place," he explained, "And that Matthew was there."

"... Why the hell would England invite Germany and Italy...? Oh, and _you_?"

The door of the coffee shop jingled as America let Prussia in, and they ignored the curious stares of the other patrons, whose eyes wandered over the out-of-it form of Matthew.

"Because he wanted to talk about some shit," Prussia explained to him quietly when they approached the counter. "The awesome-me decided that I should come along, and also, Bruder kinda looked _serious_. So whatever it was, it must have been important."

America grunted his displeasure. "I'm going to have to see what exactly they think they're doing. There are enough unwanted people at my house."

Prussia just laughed as they waited in the queue.

"Mmn..." Canada shifted on Prussia's back. "W'r we?"

"At the shop, kiddo."

"C'fee shop?"

"Exactomundo."

Matthew made an amused sound and sucked in a breath, his eyes flickered blearily open and he glanced around. A few heavy breaths indicated he was taking in the thick, homey and warm smell of fresh homemade coffee, 'by Americans for Americans' no doubt.

"C'n I ...?" Matthew asked sleepily.

"Can you...?" Prussia encouraged. "Go to... the... bathroom? I sure hope you don't have to go because it's gunna be awkward to hold you up so you can take a piss. Fucking weird too."

"No," Canada cleared his throat. "Have some."

"Some...?"

Matthew laid his head back against Prussia's shoulder. "Something," he said, more awake.

"Oh!" Realisation hit him. "Oi! Bruder-of-mein-freund," he claimed the attention of the American, "He wants something."

America was still mulling over what he wanted, and he looked at Canada in mild surprise. "You want something?"

Canada nodded.

"What do you want?"

He shrugged.

"... Okay! I'll take care of it. Do ya want something Gilbo?"

"... I do, but do you want a knuckle sandwich?"

"No."

"Don't call me Gilbo," Prussia said flatly. "And, can I have that mocha iced latte?"

"What! It's cold outside!"

"And I'm fucking awesome," Prussia turned, with Canada still firm in his grip. "Gunna find a place to grab dibs. Oooh! It looks like they got some good recliners."

Before America could protest, or say anything, or just respond, Gilbert turned and decided to lay claim to three chairs that were around a single table.

It took some doing, but Matthew was deposited down into one, and pushed towards the table. Prussia himself collapsed back into one of the chairs with an 'oomph' and began the process of pulling off his gloves and putting his feet up on one of the footstools.

He was glad to see (not that he'd have worried or some shit like that) Matthew pulling off his own gloves by himself.

America returned with a tray holding two steaming beverages and one chilled one. He handed Prussia's to him briskly. Alfred sat down in his own chair, pulling close to the small table, and set down his own drink, then Matthew's, then what looked to be a sandwich wrapped in foil.

"Okay Mattie, got you a hot chocolate. Wait a minute before drinking it." He pushed it closer to his brother, eyeing his behaviour. "And I got sandwich for us to share. I'll take one half, you the other."

"Just _half_ a sandwich?" Prussia inquired, slurping his drink with a chill. "That's a bit cheap, yo. Birdie's got a bigger, more awesome stomach than that."

America ignored him as he opened the sandwich. He deposited Matthew's half neatly on a napkin and slid it towards him. "Eat that. Chew thoroughly. If you want it, I can get you some ginger ale or something for your stomach. I asked if they had anything, just in case."

"Thanks Al," Matthew rubbed his hands together and reached to carefully pick up the sandwich in question. It was a basic bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich with some cheese and mayo added for good flavour. It was nothing special, just simplicity.

He picked through it, knowing that he probably wouldn't be able to stomach the bacon, and put them on top of Alfred's half of the sandwich. Prussia was too quick for America as he stole the strips and shoved them in his mouth with a cackle.

Matthew brought the sandwich to his mouth and took a bite. Even though he had been eating for the past few days, it was questionable on its definition of 'real food'. He had a lot of soup, and stew, and various other easy-on-the-stomach foods, but not a sandwich. Not something non-liquid-based. It was odd that a simple pleasure such as that could make him content.

He chewed thoroughly, as asked, and licked the mayonnaise off the corner of his mouth before taking another bite.

"Slow down Matt, not too much."

Prussia just watched this interaction. He put down his drinking cup and looked at Matthew, then at Alfred.

"Dude, I want you guys to come clean with me. What's going on?" His eyebrows were crinkled, and he refused to admit it was from concern.

"Not right now Prussia," America reached and handed his brother a napkin. "In a bit."

"Nuh-uh. Not in a bit. Give me something now."

Alfred sighed. "Mattie's just sick right now. Right Matt?" Canada nodded, "That's all I am willing to tell you in present company."

"How bad?"

"..."

"Come on. Don't play games with me. You have any idea how... how..." Prussia paused. Worried? No. That sounded gooshy, "Fucking _annoyed_ I've been all day? Especially after our text-message conversation."

America removed the lid of Matthew's hot chocolate to cool it down and started to stirr it slightly to encourage it to cool further. "I've told you enough for now."

"How _bad_ is it?" Prussia wasn't going to let this go.

Matthew looked up apologetically. "I'm sorry Gilbert," he started, putting down the sandwich and licking his thumb. "It's... It's not _bad_... Well. It's not good. It's just... It's..."

"It's serious," Alfred finished. "And if you're here to run around and try to play, then you can leave after you finish your drink."

"Is this why Bruder was called?"

"I dunno. Probably. Arthur was making airs of wanting someone else be involved. I just expected him to _talk to me first_ before inviting someone in," America sipped his own coffee.

"So this is... really fucking serious... isn't it?" Prussia said, his voice betraying his worry finally.

Canada looked down and picked up his sandwich again. America just sipped his quality coffee.

"Oh man..."

. . .

Canada was walking beside Prussia and his brother out of the cafe. He had flatly refused to be carried this time, and proved that with something in his stomach, he was quite capable of moving one foot in front of the other and carrying his own weight.

Kinda.

He was wobbly, and Prussia had taken to linking his arm with Matthew's to keep him steady, but did so wordlessly and didn't offer any more help beyond that.

America was being annoying and asking Canada every five seconds if he was okay.

"You sure your stomach is okay...? You did end up eating more than just a half..."

Canada had finished the half back in the cafe, found he was still hungry, and America went and got a second sandwich to share between them. He finished off that half as well; much to the delight, and increased paranoia, of his brother.

"'M fine," Canada assured, feeling his legs go extra-wobbly for a moment and was steadied by Prussia.

Who... was very quiet now. He still cackled and claimed awesome things, but for the most part, he was sober.

"You sure?"

"Positive."

Prussia decided to break his silence. "I think Bruder mentioned something about a meeting, do you think it has... to do with this?" He asked attentively. "I mean, surely it's not serious enough that England would call Bruder..."

"Yes. I wouldn't be surprised."

"..."

"Let's hurry up," America glanced at Matthew who was steadied again by Prussia before walking on.

Gilbert shook himself. Why did he keep asking those kinds of questions? It wasn't like the answers would change. But he had a very uncomfortable knot in his stomach, and asking those questions somehow made him assume the answers would loosen it. They didn't.

He was mulling weather to ask something else, anything else, when something caught the corner of his eye and caused him to pause. He stopped temporarily, causing Alfred to halt in concern.

He waved his one free arm. "Hey!" He called out in surpris. "Bruder! What are you doing down here?"

Alfred followed the gaze, surprised to see the hulk of a German man approaching them. So it _was_ Germany, walking at a brisk pace towards him in a long black coat that looked frighteningly good on him.

Prussia was glad for the temporary distraction and waved his arm stupidly. "Come here Bruder! Get your butt over here! Faster!"

Canada wavered while America and Prussia focused on the German closing in, then crumpled.

"Hey B-... woah woah woah! Dead weight!" Prussia stumbled sideways at the weight he was holding suddenly buckling and he scrambled to gain a grip on the Canadian. "Ah, _shit_! Birdie!"

"Mattie!"

Germany had just made to their side when Canada went down, he was the one that helped catch Matthew's limp weight and guided him gently to the ground, and supported him against Gilbert temporarily.

"It is a good idea I decided to come out and retrieve you," Germany stated, eyebrows narrowed as he looked at the Canadian.

"Come on Matt," America mumbled, kneeling next to his brother, he responded to the German off-handedly though, "Retrieve us?" America was pressing his hand to Canada's forehead, relieved to see it was a bout of weakness and not unconsciousness when Canada blearily looked at him. "Damn. Still there," he withdrew. "Mattie, are you okay?"

"M-... mmn..."

"Ja." Germany responded to America's question directed at him, "I had what I can assume was a thorough summary of what has transpired." Germany explained, examining the physical state of Matthew with a glance before standing and addressing Alfred, "I decided to retrieve you. This is a serious matter, and we cannot waste time." A pause. "Is he alright?"

"I'm trying to _see_ that."

"Ughn... sorry..." Canada finally mumbled, hands going to his head. "I'm really sorry."

"S'fine Matt. You pushed yourself too much. Let's get you home..."

Germany, without asking Prussia, America or more importantly, Canada, leaned down and hoisted up the man as if he weighed practically _nothing_. And he might as well have.

"I wish to speak with you, Jones, as soon as we get Williams situated in bed," Germany instructed, already moving back in the direction of the American's house. "From what has been told to me, this situation is the only one of its kind, but one I feel that if not dealt with in a timely matter, could end badly."

Prussia jogged to meet his brother's steps. "What did Iggy say?"

"I apologise Bruder. I don't have the time to reiterate what Kirkland has told me. Bonnefoy isn't a likely good source either as he seems to be in-between seriousness and wailing," a tone of exasperation met Germany's lips.

"So you're really willing to be involved in this?" America asked, keeping his pace so he was beside his brother.

"Absolutely. I'm honoured that I was asked to participate, but on revelation of what has been happening, I'm not surprised."

America wasn't sure if that was an egotistical statement, or a very disturbing harsh-reality.

Canada groaned in Germany's arms.

"... Please rest for the moment… Matthew," Germany very awkwardly encouraged. "You will be resting soon."

Matthew nodded, eyes shutting.

With Canada in his arms, Germany had the final confirmation of his permanent involvement in the situation. He may not have been certain before, but after hearing what had happened, and seeing the man for himself, his decision was final; as well as his disturbing revelation.

They had to help.

Lest they were going to watch a country die.

* * *

**Author's Note :**

Another necessary chapter, I believe. Yes. Definitely. But now you can see that Germany has joined the battle! And before any of you ask : no, I haven't forgotten about Kumataro. He'll be taken care of.

So we shall see how this goes. Germany's involved, and now they have to move forward with finding and making a solution... We shall see... we shall see.

Prussia's involved too. Who knows how THAT'S going to turn out. I'll try to keep him away from my preview this time.

AND THANKS FOR THE FOUR HUNDRED REVIEWS I LOVE EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU SO MUCH. GUHHhhhh.

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**Chapter 16 Preview : **Discussions. Sometimes it's easier to realize things when looking at it from someone else's point of view. Heck, it's easier to see things when just _talking_ about it. Will they come to a possible solution? Or a dead end? Just to what ends will they have to work at... And what sort of time frame are they looking at until the counter counts down to zero? There is no such thing as forever.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

Please read and review! I appreciate every little review and it helps me know that people like and are reading it!

I AM FLOORED. YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME. MARRY ME. GAHHH YOU'RE ALL SO COOL. ILU.


	16. Blank, Frozen and Breathless

**Disclaimer of this Chapter :** Swearing again! Woo! As my beta had mentioned, the return of the potty mouth! Alfred. Seriously, man. You need soap shoved in your mouth.

**Ownership :** I have a France one-coin figure. Oh hon hon hon... But I don't think that counts. Nope. Still don't own it. Never will.

**Important Note :** ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down any nation in question. This is based off of characterizations and not the countries involved. Thank you very much.

I apologize for the delay. Stuff goin' on, right? So yeah. Chapter for you! All done! Yes. Very good. Please thank Ophelion again for saving your poor eyes from my terribleness in spelling and grammar. And keeping me on track. Yes.

I cannot garuntee a chapter before christmas. So chapter 16 might be the last for this year! Chapter 17 will be worked on as much as I can during the break.

And... Ffffff guys... why so awesome? Less than 50 reviews away from _five_-hundred, seriously? I love all of you. If I could draw you all a picture, I would.

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen Summary :** A single event would promote the feeling for haste. Discussions... and it just goes downhill from there.

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**- Chapter 16 - Blank, Frozen and Breathless -**

Matthew was beginning to wonder why exactly all of this was happening. Why couldn't he so much as manage a simple walk to a coffee shop only a few blocks away from his brother's house? Was it really so hard to put one foot in front of the other and just _walk_ there? Was it? If it wasn't that hard, then why couldn't he manage the simple task? He didn't understand.

Yes, he was beginning to grow frustrated at it all. Maybe it was because he wasn't as out of it as he had been before; maybe it was because he could think more clearly than other times so far, but he was angry that he was handicapped by some invisible force. So instead of being able to go out for a _stroll_ in a dusting of winter snow, he was being carried back to the house by Germany.

It was maddening, really, and Canada was tired of it. How he wanted to wrench himself from the German's grip, land on his own two feet and proudly _march_ to the doorstep by himself.

That wasn't going to happen. He didn't need to test his legs to know that they felt like rubber, boneless, useless. His arms too, he knew the one that wasn't across his chest dangled a bit disturbingly. He didn't want to make the effort to move it.

All these thoughts had been condensed into a few seconds as Canada's mind was moving a thousand times faster than it should be, giving him a rather glazed look.

Gilbert was walking alongside his brother, encouraging the larger man to slow down so he didn't jar Matthew with his heavy footsteps. He wasn't exactly liking the glazed over and limp look Canada was sporting. He didn't think that Canada looked _brain-dead_ or something, but he just looked... off.

No doubt Alfred was noticing this too.

Ludwig just wanted to hurry up, but continued at a steady pace as instructed.

Matthew was still lost in his head when a shock of white and red intruded his vision and he found himself breaking away from his spiralling thoughts.

"Are ya still with us Birdie?" the man grinned with teeth showing. "Or have you gone to Loompa-land to try to find Aunty Em, Alice?"

Canada shot him a quizzical look. "Those are from three completely different stories," he managed.

Prussia laughed, for whatever reason. "Fff. I guess you are still with us. Tell me, when you were in Oz, did you dream of me? Was I there? Was Alfred there? Was Bruder there? Oh! I bet Al was the scarecrow, because he really needs a -"

_Piff_

A snowball hit Gilbert in the back of the head.

"Oi!"

"Can it Dorothy," Alfred grunted.

"... Dorothy? That doesn't even make _sense_."

Canada closed his eyes as Prussia and America then loudly argue who was really the scarecrow, and that the other one needed a heart because they were stupid and rusty like the tinman. So on and so forth. The only thing Matthew heard from Germany was a very heavy sigh. "At a time like this..."

Helplessness fell over him again. It was at his toes and through his body to his fingers. The feeling of weakness coupled with lead weights on his limbs, weighing him down.

What if he couldn't move again?

What if he was stuck?

He twitched a finger as if to test if his brain was able to send messages to his body still. It moved fine. He flexed it, then curled his hand into a fist easily and let it relax again. A good sign.

He shifted in the man's grip, causing Ludwig to stop for a moment, so he wouldn't drop Matthew.

"Sorry," Canada mumbled absently, trying to pull his arm up so it wasn't dangling so lifelessly. Surely that was disturbing to look at. Besides, it was getting a bit numb and tingly from the odd position.

Problem was: it wasn't coming.

Germany assumed he was done shifting and continued on again; Canada's brother and Gilbert stopped their arguing, both of their heads of hair a bit more wet and adorned with snow, both clearly triumphant.

Matthew's arm really wasn't answering him.

He grunted, unintentionally, trying to move his arm up so it could go to his chest. His muscles screamed at him like they were overworked and stressed, like he had tried to lift hundreds of pounds.

Canada's heart began to pound deeply in his chest and he shoved it away. No... No. Don't freak out. It's just exhaustion. His body was just stressed and exhausted. That's all. This happened before they went to the coffee shop and he was _okay_ for a while after that. This was nothing.

He was going to prove this to himself by moving his leg a bit.

See...? Nothi-

Shit. Shit. He couldn't really move it. He could, sort of, but it was moving fractions of what he wanted it to. It felt stiff and frozen, like he was suffering from hypothermia, or his brain just wasn't sending out the right messages.

Shit. No!

His foot twitched. Both of them did, and he shifted again in Germany's arms.

"Williams?" The deep voice questioned, noticing Canada's consistent shifting. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"No." Canada stated, perhaps a bit too sharply. This drew the attention of Gilbert and Alfred.

"Something up, Birdie?" Prussia asked casually. "Don't worry, we're probably what... two blocks away...?"

"Three," Alfred corrected. "We're just three blocks away from home. So can ya hold on till then?"

Canada shifted again. This had nothing to do with comfort. Now he was earnestly trying to swing his arm up. Maybe hit Germany's chest. Kick his legs. Something. But he was just getting lame and weak responses, and muscles crying in agonising fatigue.

A sound escaped his throat unwarranted; Germany stopped.

"No... Don't stop," Matthew breathed more than actually spoke. "I'm okay. Just... adjusting."

God damnit was it really so hard to pick up his arm?

By that point, his heart was beating a mile a minute. He could feel it pounding in his skull, and his ears were beating in rhythm to it. Ludwig didn't start walking again. Instead, he tried his best to readjust Matthew, still figuring that comfort was a factor.

"No!" Canada cried, causing the three to jump. "T-... that's not..." he wheezed.

God damnit! Fuck! He couldn't... It wasn't working! He couldn't move! His heart beat faster and he felt tingling at the ends of his toes and his fingertips. He clenched his hand and shivered as a wave of icy chills swam over him.

He let loose a whine or a cry, or something. His arms wouldn't move. He couldn't move! Oh god he was going to stop moving altogether. He was going to freeze up, his heart was going to stop! He was going to _die_.

He struggled then. Trying to move. Trying to get himself to _work_ again, not entirely understanding what was actually happening to his body and just assuming it was going to get worse till death was the answer.

His breath hitched, another cry, and he was being quickly levered to the ground.

Canada was shaking, his breaths were coming in sharp panicked gasps, and every so-often one of his limbs would jerk a few inches in a direction before coiling back upon themselves.

"Holy crap! What's happening!" Alfred all but cried. "Is he having a heart attack! A seizure!"

Matthew's eyes jammed shut, and his back arched slightly as he gasped. Germany saw this and pressed down; stoic, serious, not freaking out outwardly like America, or inwardly like Prussia.

"He's having a panic attack," Ludwig said seriously, kneeling over the freaking out man. "Bruder. Run to the house. Now. Get someone."

The hand curled on Matthew's chest gripped on Germany's wrist, where he still lightly pressed down to keep Matthew mostly stationary. His breaths were sharp and painful sounding, beginning to elicit coughs. Tears streamed down the corners of his eyes and all he knew was terror.

Ludwig knew he had to act, Matthew's breaths were getting faster and sharper, and he knew he was going to pass out soon if something wasn't done.

He put a hand on Canada's forehead, in an attempt to tilt the man's face toward him.

"It's okay," he assured. "It's okay."

"M-Mattie... Just calm down. Tell us what's wrong, bro," America said lamely, hands hovering over his brother, unsure of what to do.

"Just tell him he's going to be okay. Don't say anything else. Don't try to negotiate."

Inside Matthew's mind he was screaming. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to perish on a snowy sidewalk halfway between home and hot chocolate! He was going to die!

His body wanted to cough, gasp and sob at the same time; he just shook, breaths gagged. His lips tingled, his mouth felt numb. His ears began to buzz and the sound of rushing blood slammed against his ability to hear. He was left alone with mind-numbing thoughts and the fight to live.

"Mattie! Mattie," Alfred cried. "Mattie! It's okay. It's okay! You're okay! Come on Matt! You're okay. Please. You're okay. Believe me, Matthew. It's okay!"

Redundant words seemed to be doing nothing.

Germany didn't need to say that it was getting dangerous; Canada had a recent history with respiratory arrest. Not only did they have to fight to keep him conscious, but fight against him losing his breath permanently.

Matthew's head began to loll and he struggled, his eyes alternating between opened and closed as he writhed in sheer panic of inevitable death.

But words came. The gasping man managed to articulate just well enough for the other two men to understand, "M'... g'n... die..."

"No Mattie!" Alfred cried. "No! You're not going to die! You're okay!" He choked slightly on his words, "D-don't _say_ that, Matt. Ju-just don't!"

Canada struggled, gasped, cried out. America pushed Germany away from his brother and took him up quickly, holding him close.

"It's okay! Mattie. It's okay. Everything is going to be okay! You're not going to die! We're right here. We're here. We're going to help. You're okay!"

Germany stood up sharply and surveyed the horizon for any sight of his brother. He knew that his elder brother could cross farther distances much faster. The glint of car lights - his own car lights - told well that he was already on his return journey. With help.

Germany knelt again.

"Williams," he stated sharply. "Williams."

It wasn't apparent if Canada could hear him or not, instead, he just fought against unconsciousness, tensing and un-tensing as his eyes flickered dangerously, his gasps penetrating the cool air.

"... Matthew," Germany pressed. "Matthew. Listen. Matthew."

He looked for any sign that the nation before them was listening, but he couldn't tell.

He spoke anyway. "Help is coming. Your fathers are coming. Do you hear me? They are coming. You are going to be okay. You need to breathe."

"C-come on Mattie..." Alfred pressed tightly. "Come on..."

"Breathe, Williams. _Breathe_."

The car skidded to a halt, doors slammed open.

In Canada's mind was white noise. He could barely hear the outside world, let alone feel it. He just had the panicked feeling that he was going to die. Die frozen in a body that couldn't move. Was he going to stop breathing first? Or was his heart going to give in? Were the last moments of life going to consist of the complete silence of his own body? To hear his own lifeline end?

Voices were tugging the back of his mind. Surfacing in and out of his panic.

"- breathe -"

"- calm -"

"- It's okay -"

His mind felt sharp and buzzing. His heaving breaths persisted but he was getting a grasp on the world as he was encouraged to do so.

"Calmez-vous... calmez-vous."

"Breathe Matthew. Come on, bloody breathe."

"Calmez-vous mon petit mignon! Mon Ange! Calmez-vous!"

His breaths were still sharp and interspersed with coughs. His mind wasn't racing anymore, but instead focusing on the voices.

"Calm down. There now. Come, look at me lad," he was encouraged by a soft voice. "Come, look at me."

"Mon Ange... Mon petit Ange..."

Purple flickered to meet green.

"There. That's my boy," England encouraged; he was kneeling beside his son, his hand against his cheek, trying to beckon his attention. "There. It's alright now. You're doing just fine. See? You're just fine."

A muffled whine erupted from Matthew's throat, hot tears beaded at the corners of his eyes.

"Shh... Shh... It's okay. Whatever it is, it's gone now. You're okay now. I promise you. You are okay."

"- Mon petit Ange -"

Canada's eyes trained on England. He nodded despite not hearing half of what Arthur said. Entranced, breaths heaving, he tried to listen.

"That's a good lad. Okay, calm down. You can do that. I want you to take good breaths for me, okay? Come on, I'll count." He made a wide sweeping gesture of breathing in, then out.

The Englishman gradually managed to get the Canadian to somewhat follow suit. He counted carefully and calmly, trying to hold his own demeanour to be calm while he worked on keeping eye contact with his son, and holding enough calm for them both.

"Okay... Matthew? Can you hear me?"

"- Oh mon petit -"

Canada's mouth worked, his throat felt dry. "Y... yes..."

"Good. Good. Alright. You're okay. You're okay. Everyone is right here. Your papa is holding you, and I'm right here Matthew."

Canada felt his gloved hand being held carefully by another more aged and experienced hand.

"S... sor...ry..."

"No. Don't apologise." The hand squeezed his own. "You had every reason to freak out. But I need you to be calm. We are going to pick you up, okay? We are going to take you to the car, and we are going to take you home."

"K... kay..."

"You are going to try to stay calm for me, alright? Count your breaths," he was instructed. "Two seconds in, four seconds out. Can you do this for me?"

"M-mmn..."

"Matthew."

"Ye... Yes."

"Good."

England stood, leaving Matthew on the ground with his 'Papa' and looked at Alfred, who was standing anxiously on the sidelines with Prussia, who was just very, very, quiet.

"He's going to be _fine_," the Englishman assured and he gestured to Ludwig. "We can take him in the car now."

America shifted. "We're not all going to fit -"

"I know."

Canada was hoisted up quickly by Ludwig and put in the backseat. France scrambled to be in the back with him, and England didn't voice any protest upon the wild movement from the Frenchman. He stood off to the side and glanced at the three other men left outside.

"Alright so..."

Prussia was the one who spoke, surprisingly. "Bruder, you drive the car. It's your car, England, why don't you go with them? America and I will walk back."

"But-!"

Gilbert glanced at the American. "Dude. It's just a few blocks. We can handle it."

America clamped his mouth shut and made a discomforted noise at the concept of him leaving Matthew alone in the car, and of why he wasn't the one driving, and of why he couldn't be in the car in the first place.

"It's nothing personal, man."

Arthur seemed to agree with Prussia's reasoning. He opened the passenger door and clambered into the car.

Germany spared America a glance before he walked round and got in himself.

"W-wait! I want to be in the car with Mattie too!" Alfred called out in desperation. "I have to be in the car with him!"

Prussia put a hand on America's shoulder and pulled him back. "It's... It's fine. We can just walk back. Or run. Okay? It's not that far away. Birdie'll be f-"

"I don't give a fuck I want to be _in the car with Mattie_."

Prussia just waved to the car while keeping a firm grip of Alfred's shoulder.

"H-hey!"

"Come on."

"But-"

"Fritz's sake! Alfred, we're _going to the same place_," Gilbert pressed, "It's not like you're never going to see him again!"

. . .

Prussia, honestly surprised, wondered why the American man hadn't just gotten up and ran to the house when they had started the walk. He had expected that to happen; the moment that the car had pulled away he had _expected_ for Alfred to make chase and run after it in a mad dash. So understandably, when Alfred put his hands in his pockets and started walking _calmly_, Gilbert felt that it didn't seem _right_.

He didn't complain, but he was still confused, so he walked in step with Alfred, glancing at him curiously; America was acting in the opposite to how Prussia _expected_ him to be.

He also expected anger, frustration, hysterics, franticness, an overwhelming mask of heroicness and exclamations to save his 'brother in distress'. But... Nothing. No. The great United States of America was _sulking_.

"... Aren't you going to dash over there and be the hero you claim to be...?" He asked finally when the man still hadn't made any sort of mad dash.

"No..." America said quietly, more to the ground than to Gilbert.

"Well considering how you were before, I just thought -" He paused, looking at Alfred's face.

Okay. It _really_ was getting strange. America didn't _sulk_ like that, Gilbert was damn sure of it.

"Are you o-"

He didn't so much as manage to _finish_ his entire sentence when a very loud, strangled growl of frustration broke from Alfred's throat and America kicked a garbage can that was just on their right.

It flew through the air and buckled when it crashed into the tree with a loud, echoing clatter, and fell to the ground in a clanging _THUMP_. It had been decimated.

"Holy fuckin' _shit_, man!" Gilbert cried, jumping back. "What the fuck was that fo-"

He was cut off again as America whirled to face him, eyes dark as he grabbed Prussia by the front of the jacket. "I am not_. _fucking_. okay,_" he hissed acidly.

"O-okay..." Gilbert put up his hands defensively. "You're not okay. I get it."

"How the _hell _can I be _'okay' _when I just fucking heard my brother," his voice choked amidst his anger, "say that he was going to _die_?"

"It was just the panic attack!"

America snarled, "It wasn't just the fucking panic attack! Did you _hear_ how _fucking scared he was_! He thought he was going to _die_. He thought he was dying! He was fucking _scared_."

Prussia was roughly let go of as America gave another, loud, frustrated cry. "_GOD FUCKING DAMNIT!_"

It was the last straw. The memory of his brother, struggling out words behind painful gasps, giving out pitiful breaths has he tried to speak... it was horrible. But the anguished voice of realisation that Matthew had given, the fear that his life was going to be snuffed out right there on that very sidewalk was more than he could bear.

He saw it in that moment. Matthew had believed, with all his heart, that he was going to _die_.

He thought his blood had turned to ice when he saw it, and he could still feel it running cold in his veins.

And Matthew had _pleaded_, Alfred recalled. Canada pleaded with every movement he had made. Matthew didn't _want_ to die; but he _believed _he was going to.

How the _fuck_ could he be _okay_ with any of that!

"F-fuck..." America said, quieter, his hands gripping his hair almost painfully tight. "Fucking... damnit..."

"Birdie is going inside... So," Prussia tried lamely, since he had no idea what to do. "So... He'll be okay now."

"He's not going to be fucking okay!" Alfred snapped, not turning his head. "He's not fucking okay. He wasn't fucking okay before, and he _won't be now!_"

He didn't want to have to see Matthew like that again. He didn't want to have that happen again... He didn't want Canada to be _right_. If he could barely stand to see his brother assume he was going to die, then what would happen if he really _did_?

And he was only getting worse.

So, so much worse.

"Fuck."

America wiped at his eyes with his sleeves, glasses pushed up. He fell into a half-kneel, his thoughts driving him downward.

"Fucking _damnit_." He punched the concrete. It wasn't a power-house blow, but weak and pathetic, and America drew back when his knuckles throbbed at the abuse. "Fuck..."

He just needed, _desperately _needed to let it all out. He had been bottling up his own frustrations and worries for far, far too long. Maybe this was his and his brother's shared vice. Both of them just contained themselves until they exploded.

Matthew fell into lapses of the epitome of panic, and _he _punched sidewalks... and walls.

He let loose a dry laugh at that thought, and punched the sidewalk again for good measure.

"Fuck..."

Thankfully, Gilbert had decided to stop trying to talk to him, and waited quietly beside him until he was finished de-stressing.

Really, what could he say? What could he say? He couldn't _lie_ and say that it was nothing. It hadn't been nothing. He'd also be lying if he had said that hadn't scared the shit out of him too. It had done more than scare the shit out of him. Even if he didn't let it show on his face, he was actually _more _unnerved now than when he had initially been briefed; before all this _happened._

So he couldn't lie to Alfred. He had every right to go around and punch sidewalks and murder garbage cans. Hell, if it was his brother? He would have too.

America gave a few heavy sniffs and was focusing intensely on nothing. He glared at that point of nothing so viciously, it was as if that singular dot of non-existence had _personally_ threatened his entire family.

"Damnit..." He growled.

He heaved a breath and stood, his glasses pushed askew again as he rubbed his palm into his eyes, and turned to Gilbert.

"That's it. I can't take it. After this fucking _meeting_ of ours," he said, holding distaste for it because, to him, it was doing nothing but waste time, "I'm going to go to Mattie's fucking government, and _kick all of their fucking asses_."

He then stared at Prussia, as if daring him to argue, to refute, to reason with him. He _dared_ Gilbert with his icy stare to even _suggest_ that he shouldn't do just that; because, if he did, he was going to have news for him. Nothing, _nothing_ was going to stop him.

Prussia just stared back at him, and didn't respond. At first, Alfred didn't know how he wanted to take that, but decided that it was Gilbert silently agreeing.

"Good."

In truth, Prussia thought it was a terrible idea, but decided to tell Alfred when he wasn't in a sidewalk-punching, garbage can-murdering mood.

"After the meeting," Alfred said tensely, gesturing with his gloved hand. "I am going to do _something_, damnit. Something."

Gilbert gave the most neutral gesture he could muster.

There was another moment of silence between then. America didn't seem so openly distraught as before, and he was taking even breaths; openly whooshing out air through his teeth with his hands on his hips.

Quietly, testing the mood, Prussia asked, "... so... do you want...?"

Alfred glanced at him, looking calmer... no... The emotion was directed elsewhere - determination boiled behind his glasses.

"Yeah. Let's get back. Mattie needs me."

A simple nod and Prussia put his hands in his pockets, turning to start a very _brisk_ walk, finally, back to Alfred's house.

. . .

England stood by Canada's bedside, leaning slightly forward with his hand on Matthew's back as he slowly urged his son's breathing to normalise. He was the only one in the room with him at the moment, in an attempt to calm him by reducing the amount of people he was in contact with.

He didn't say much beyond gentle encouragements; when – and only when – he was satisfied with the pace and consistency of his son's breaths, did he sit at the bedside, looking down at Matthew.

"There... How do you feel now?"

"B-better..."

"There's a good lad. I think I'll have to brew you a good cup of tea. Camomile, if I can."

"M-mn..."

Any good parent could tell that Matthew was on the verge of turning over and burying himself into the blankets and pillow. He had this look about him that expressed he wanted nothing more than to grip the fabric and fade away, or just meld into it. To stop any of that foolish innocence, Arthur put a hand on Canada's shoulder to keep Matthew facing him.

"Now, there's no shame in what happened," England assured him. "It can't be helped. It's bloody inconvenient, but I assure you that you'll feel better because of it. You probably needed a nice, good venting."

Matthew nodded, eyes still glazed and glassy. No doubt self-deprecating thoughts were in his mind.

"Are you quite alright?" England asked. "Care to talk to me about what happened? I'm sure that it will help if you speak to someone."

"I... I don't know..."

"Come now," Arthur chastised, as if he was speaking to a ten-year old. "Best you explain to me straight up what it was all about then. It'll do you some good."

Matthew looked back at him, deliberating a response. But he did speak, because he did want to talk to someone about it.

"W-well... It was hard to breathe," Matthew said first, "But it wasn't the problem."

"And what was?"

"W-well, you've probably heard from Alfred," Canada said, shifting, "But I collapsed, twice. I... I... The first time, I just felt weak and noodley. Like I had ran a marathon..."

A sniff. "I am _well aware_," Arthur said, full of disapproval, "that you had collapsed. Your brother, and Gilbert I might add, did good and explained to me what happened. I am just appalled that you didn't come _home_."

"W-well... Al had said before -"

"Yes yes. He told me you insisted to get coffee. But Matthew, this isn't the issue," he said, not wanting to derail. "So what was it that made you so frightened?"

"W-well, as I said, before? I felt weak. B-but I collapsed for a second time, a-and when I was being carried by Germany," he paused. "I... I felt like I couldn't _move_." Canada shifted. "M-my arms and legs felt like they just couldn't_ move_ anymore. Like the-they were being weighed down." His breathing hitched.

"You felt paralysed." It wasn't a question.

"Y... y... yeah..."

"Did this feeling come about all of a sudden or..." England started, concern leaking into his voice. "Or... Was it...?"

"I... I don't remember. I just remember not being able to move my arms or legs. I could before but..." Matthew bit his lip, his fingers flexed on the sheets.

Arthur gestured quickly. "Enough of that. Right. I understand. I get the picture," he assured, cutting off the description lest it cause a relapse in the poor boy.

Matthew nodded; though his mind was still lost in the feeling of not having control over his body. It was like a connection had been severed in his brain.

He didn't have the will or want to test whether or not he could move again.

England interrupted those thoughts with a question, "Tell me, Matthew, how do you feel now?" He held an encouraging hand on Canada's shoulder, as if to hold the man's breath in place.

Matthew looked like he was on the verge of tears, trying to voice _how_ exactly he felt, the memory of it still tangible and within reach; England didn't wait for his answer, he saw enough. So he just pulled Canada up and against him, holding his son's head to his shoulder with a hand through the blond locks.

"It's alright, lad," Arthur hummed. "It'll go away. This will pass. You're tired, stressed, and you've been through quite the time already. No doubt you're getting fed up. It's alright, Matthew. You just need to relax..."

Arthur wasn't fond of how Canada didn't make movements to wrap his arms around him.

"You just need a good distraction from all this, mn?" England kept on speaking. "You need a nice, good, distraction; something to keep your mind away from your stressful bloody thoughts, and onto more pleasant things. Like tea."

A small breath of air snuffed through Matthew's nose made Arthur smirk.

"Hmn. I'll get on making you that tea soon enough. Perhaps you should read a book, watch television, but bloody hell," he rambled, "It'll be American television, so most of the shows will consist of commercials. You could even play one of those stupid video games. I'm sure that Prussia brought some."

Matthew hummed in his throat.

"Right."

England glanced at the clock and winced. It was the worst timing possible, but it was high-time for the discussion. While Germany did tell him that he did not have to rush, that the discussion wasn't absolutely urgent, Arthur knew that holding it off would do more bad than good.

He hated to leave his son like this, but it was for the good of his son that he was leaving him in the first place. He hoped that Matthew wouldn't fare worse than before because of it.

"Matthew..." England gently pulled back as he let of Canada, letting him sit back in his previous position.

"Here." He stood and pried a random popular book off of one of Alfred's shelves, picked up the remote, and a portable videogame system that was just laying on the floor (Alfred could be such a pig sometimes).

He plopped them all beside Matthew. "Here. I'm very sorry but-"

"Germany is expecting you downstairs?"

"Germany is- ... Well. Yes. You understand." Arthur adjusted his vest absently. "I'm sorry."

"S'okay."

A sad smile and England leaned over, "I am going to come back with a nice cuppa tea afterwards, eh? I might even commit blasphemy and swirl in some maple syrup. But that will have to wait till after the meeting."

Matthew nodded.

A gentle knock at the door.

"I'm coming."

Before he turned, England patted Matthew's hand, and adjusted the pillow. Quietly he departed the room, and let Matthew be.

. . .

The discussions were well underway. Germany, Italy, France, England, America and Prussia all sat together in Alfred's living room, effectively making the normally large-appearing space seem cramped and tight. Which only helped to make the mood more serious.

Germany asked for a recap of all events, and asked Alfred for all reasons why he assumed that Matthew's health was connected to the government, rather than something political, geographical, citizen-based or otherwise just physical.

"- And that's why," Alfred said importantly, hand on the table. "I say we phone them right now." In his hand was Matthew's cell phone, opened and the number for the special line already selected.

He knew they'd object to the idea of 'storming the castle', but he figured that they could agree to some verbal abuse.

"Wait wait wait," Prussia put up his hands. He oddly hadn't said much during the discussions, mostly because it was a recap of what had transpired, but he wanted to fit in his two cents now. "You're going to phone them, now? And say what?"

"Demand them to stop harassing Mattie," came the response, and said as if this was more obvious than the white in Gilbert's hair. He also shot him a look asking why Prussia was questioning him. Alfred was sure he was on his side with this!

No. No, Gilbert wasn't.

"So... Let me get this straight," Prussia began, "You are assuming it's his government, because of a few phone calls and missed paperwork? And you're going to phone them _right now_ about it?"

Yes. Then go over there and kick their asses. He thought he went over this before.

"Not _just_ phone calls and paperwork," Alfred defended. "Did you even listen to when I was telling you about the answering machine message? He collapsed and stopped _breathing_ when they sent that to him! Not to mention, before that, he had a Niagara-fucking-falls of a nosebleed when he kept being _denied _contact with them before! So yeah. I think I _am_ going to phone them right now."

"Well yeah," Prussia rolled his eyes. "Woop-de-fucking-do."

America growled warningly.

"Oh calm down Rex. I'm just saying," Prussia gestured. "Are we really going to walk up to Birdie's parliament buildings and demand them to stop ignoring phone calls? Oh yes!" He added sarcastically. "That's going to go over as smooth as butter. 'Bad government! Bad. Stop forgetting Matthew and ignoring his phone calls! Bad. No treats for _you_'." He coupled this with the gesture of smacking something.

"Why I _never_." England looked appalled, as did France.

"_Bruder_!" Germany straightened, offended and at the same time, embarrassed. "_Please_. This is a time to be serious."

"I _am_ being serious," came in a tone that matched the meaning. "But seriously man, put down the phone. It's not going to do you any fucking good." His message went beyond just the phone call. He gave America a warning with his eyes; he meant more than just the phone call.

"We're _countries_." America protested, offended by Prussia's accusations, and sending Prussia a rebuttal with his own eyes. "We can go there, or phone them, and they'll _listen _to what we have to say!"

Pale fingers massaged a pale temple. "Augh. Arthur, take the phone away from Alfred before he makes a righteous ass out of himself."

"Explain why, and I'll think about it." England's eyes were narrowed.

"Because him yelling and demanding that they did something wrong when all he can do is say 'because I witnessed it' without a shred of proof otherwise is stupid," came the easy response. "You don't have to be awesome to realise that."

Germany looked at his brother, and suddenly understood what Prussia was getting at. He leaned forward and gestured with his hand to Alfred, with the intent of taking the device from him. "Jones, I believe that Bruder may have a point."

"Point? What point?"

"We _ourselves_ are not entirely sure if it is his government," Germany explained casually, his hand still out. "If we can't completely convince ourselves that it is the problem at hand, then how are we able to confront the accused?"

"But _I_ completely believe that it's the problem!"

"We -" Germany relented, "We don't have enough evidence to prove that. For all we know, this could be another side effect, a symptom, a singular piece of the whole. Who's to say that the only symptoms that Williams has displayed, and will display, will only be physical? If we attack or accost them now, then we will be sending a bad message."

Prussia snorted from where he was, slumped back in his chair, arms crossed. "You got that fucking right. I can see the headlines now : 'United States of America Wrongly Accuse Canadian Government Behind Closed Doors,' I can see _that_ going over just peachy. Your media will lap it up, and it'll blow the fuck up in your faces."

Ludwig had to agree. "I'm sorry. But despite everything, we cannot move forward until we've looked into the matter further. We have to be absolutely certain."

"Well bugger."

America glared at the phone and pocketed it. "Fine. I... I can see where you're getting at. But I _totally_ think that the phone-thing and the government is part of the fucking problem. If not _the_ problem."

"And here's some food for thought," Gilbert added. "If, you know, the Government really _is_ up to doing shit, who's to say that they'll openly admit to anything? They'll probably play fucking dumb."

"Bugger. They _could_ do that, couldn't they?"

Francis rubbed his temple. "Mon dieu. Why couldn't 'e just 'ave a bad cold and I could take 'im 'ome and make 'im better with 'ome cooking? This is exhausting."

Germany straightened. "Well. We've already begun the first steps to solving this problem. I think we should all back away from it now, think about it separately, and reconvene shortly with our minds fresh. Perhaps we can come to better conclusions then."

"As much as I'd like to go forward and have this solved by the night," Arthur pushed himself up instead, "This is _exhausting_; I agree with Ludwig." He heaved himself out of the seat. "Now that you've been fully informed, Germany, I do feel much better."

"I will do my best to help you reach a conclusion. The situation is... distressing at best."

"No doubt you will." Arthur looked at the other nations, tiredly. "If you don't mind, I am going to give my mind a rest, and make some tea for Matthew."

"That would be acceptable."

"Ne..." Italy spoke up. He had been sitting out during the whole recount and the subsequent argument between the Prussian and the American. "Before people go..."

Ludwig turned with surprise to his small companion. He nearly forgot he was there; he was so used to the other being loud, or at least making random noises, that he sort of glanced over his presence at his side. His face relaxed and he nodded to Italy. "Do you have something to add, Feliciano?"

Italy twisted his hands and looked at them, thinking for a second. With a stressed expression, he spoke. "Ne, I was just thinking... if... if Mr. Canada stopped breathing because of the answering machine message, and felt icky because he was being ignored and, um, had a bloody nose because of phone calls... Um..." He moved his hands as if they were helping to explain his thoughts.

"Yes, Italy?"

"... Then... What would have made Mr. Canada feel _really really_ scared before?" He asked, causing Germany and the rest of the room to pause in their movements.

Germany looked at Italy, then turned to Alfred and the two other European countries.

"I had assumed," Ludwig said, putting a hand on his chin. "That it was an accumulation of stressful events coupled with a weak disposition. I didn't think anything of it."

"I as well. I thought he had a good reason to have a panic attack. Bloody hell, he's been through enough," England interjected. "I didn't think it had to do with anything..."

America spoke quietly, "... Yeah. Well... We can't really rule that out, right? I mean, what _if_ it was a reaction to something?"

They all looked between each other.

"Then perhaps we should finish planning out how we are going to deal with our own personal duties," Germany said, standing. "And working faster on the definite cause for _all_ of this. But for _now_, we don't dwell on what-ifs. Kirkland, you can make that tea."

Italy stayed with Germany as the other nations dismissed themselves from the room. America disappeared up the stairs - who oddly hadn't said much of anything after his suggestion of reaming the government out right then and there was shot down - France and England to the kitchen, and Prussia muttered something about 'going for an awesome walk,' but it truthfully sounded half-hearted.

"Doitsu..."

Ludwig turned at the sound of his odd nickname. "Yes, Italia?"

"Doitsu. Nothing bad is going to happen to Mr. Canada, is it?" He asked earnestly, looking up at Germany. "I don't know Mr. Canada that well, but I'd be really sad if something bad happened! All that I was hearing just sounded scary and sad."

"A-ah... I'm sure..." Germany reached out and patted Italy on the head awkwardly with one of his massive gloved hands. "... That we will find a solution. And he can get back to - "

He fumbled.

"- To ..." He sighed. "... To doing whatever it is that makes him happy."

"Ve... I hope so..." Italy looked down. "Ne... He's a family member, and I don't know him that well. He's fratello-France's son, right? So... I'm his uncle in a weird way..."

"Ja, I suppose."

"... Ve ... I hope he doesn't fade away."

Ludwig felt a pang somewhere. Somewhere. Of guilt? Recognition? He knew that Italy had suffered from having two very dear people disappear on him, maybe more. He wasn't surprised. Italy had a rather huge scope of years behind him, and the disappearance of close family members or friends, or even another country, wasn't a light manner.

"I'm sure that he will not." Though he couldn't say for sure if that was the truth.

Italy hummed in his throat. "Hug?"

"..."

. . .

Alfred might not have been very happy with the conclusion of the discussion. He definitely wasn't happy that he couldn't just up and phone the government and stop whatever the hell it was they were doing. But, for once, he felt like they could possibly be in control of the situation.

He hated to say it, and he'd never admit it, but it was better having more people involved.

It felt like things were getting _done_.

Wait. Fuck that. He wasn't going to phone them. They had agreed on that. Just walking to Matthew's door made Alfred remember clearly what he wanted to do.

The fear of seeing Matthew in an unpredictable state made frustration rumble in his chest again, and he decided that after this, he was sneaking out to give certain someone's a good wake up call.

That thought alone kept him content.

He was sorry to the others... But...

... He couldn't leave it. Someone was going to get hurt in this round, and it wasn't going to be Mattie.

So, throwing reasoning out the window, he made his decision.

Without much care for if Matthew was sleeping, and wanting a respite from the exhausting conversation, Alfred slammed open the door to his bedroom, and sung, loudly, "Ohhhh Cannnnaaadaaaaa -"

Matthew jumped, dropping the book.

He glowered at his brother for the intrusion.

America ignore the all-too-familiar look and continued as he was doing. "- Their hommeee and naatiiiveee lannndddd," Alfred sung, walking up to his brother with a smirk.

"What are you singing _now?_" Matthew asked flatly.

America didn't respond and instead ruffled up Matthew's hair with a hand. "How's Canada doin'?"

Matthew pushed the hand off of his head, sighing to himself. Really... His brother could be so... so... random. But he somehow loved him anyway. Smoothing his hair back, he looked at his brother with a vague, blank, confused expression.

"Well...?"

"Well what?"

"I asked how Canada was doing!" America exclaimed cheerfully; just being exuberant for the... sake of exuberance.

There was a strange sort of pause. Matthew looked at America blankly again for a moment or two, his purple eyes tensing in slight thought, eyebrows knitting together by mere millimetres.

"Matt?" Alfred asked, a bit confused himself; it wasn't that hard of a question.

"Sorry. I didn't catch that."

"I _asked_," America spoke louder, frowning. "How's Canada doing?"

The very same blank response returned, that same searching expression just behind his eyes. Alfred had to wonder, but Matthew's expression seemed to be bordering between 'no recognition' and 'tiredness'. Maybe, America reasoned, he was just exhausted from the panic attack, or maybe he just woke up. Or maybe he really _did_ scare the bajeesus out of his brother. America wasn't sure what to think of it.

"Mattie?"

A second passed then Canada's eyes snapped wider. "... Wh- Oh!" He flushed deeply. "Oh! Sorry! I zoned out! Um... I'm fine, Al. I'm fine. I'm much better than before," he laughed, nervously. "Yep... Haha... Sorry. My mind drew a blank."

Alfred straightened. "You drew a _blank_," he stated, incredulously.

"H...ahaha... k-kinda..."

Was it just him, or did Matthew have that expression that meant he was beating himself up on the inside? Calling himself stupid? Why? Just what _had_ been going on in Canada's mind when the question was asked?

"You sure you're okay...?" America asked again. "Maybe you should get more sleep..."

"O-oh... Heheh..." Canada shifted. "I'm waiting for tea. Dad said he was going to brew me some."

"Oh."

Silence, and America sat down in his chair, still looking at Matthew strangely, still not quite able to put his finger on what exactly was off.

There was silence in the room for a number of seconds, that is, until Alfred jumped when he heard something akin to a speaker from his _butt_.

"What the fuck was that!"

"O-oh! I think you pocket-dialled someone."

America ripped the offending phone from his pocket which was playing an automated message. Matthew's cellphone.

"Aw. Shit. Sorry."

He placed it to his ear.

"_- has been permanently disconnected. Any persons attempting to use this line for their own means will be prosecuted under the full force of the law."_

"... Huh...?"

Matthew shifted. "What is it?"`

"Shh." He pressed the phone closer, hoping the message would repeat. And it did.

_"As of this morning, due to extended lack of official use, this line, under the issue of the Government of Canada, has been permanently disconnected. Any persons attempting to use this line for their own means will be prosecuted under the full force of the law."_

Alfred pulled the phone away from his ear sharply and ended the call. He quickly thumbed through the call-history to locate the pocket-call.

No...

It _was _already in Matthew's address book, it had a name: _'Personal Direct Line'_.

"Mattie...?" Alfred's mouth was a little dry. He held out the phone. "What do you use this number for?"

"I..." Matthew looked at the number and for a second, Alfred watched his eyes glaze over. "Um..."

"Mattie. What is this number for?" Alfred swallowed. He knew what this number was for.

"That's my... Um..." Matthew shook his head to clear his thoughts. "That's my government line!" He said suddenly. Canada spoke quickly, "That's how I contact my government."

America knew it.

He knew it.

Well, good thing his plan had actually been to storm the parliament buildings all along.

The phone line was gone.

Shit.

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**Author's Note:**

This chapter was interesting for me to do.

Anyway. Alfred is going to storm the government? Whaaaaat. Alfred. Seriously, guy. You gotta focus on the real priorities here. Like hugging your brother. Ah man...

... I wonder if he'll really go through with it. (Though, as the author, I really should already know the answer to this).

Thanks so much for the 450 plus reviews! I mean, really. It's amazing. It really is. I'm flattered. XD. Haha. You guys are all awesome and the epical awesome Prussia will admit that you do come somewhat close to his level of awesome (However, he will never say equal or greater-than beause he is a Prussia... and thus never thinks anyone is above his sexy-self.)

Also:

_Why does Italy call Germany "Doitsu" when Italy isn't Japanese?_ - I have a reasoning for this. I have a feeling that "Germany" is a scary name (to Italy), as is "Deutchland" as is "Germania" (Italian for Germany), and when he heard Japan call him "Doitsu", Italy latched onto that and thought it was cute... So... um... He kept calling him that. My Italy will rotate between 'Doitsu' and 'Germany' mostly. Mainly he just wants Germany to have a cute nickname... For... whatever reason. Germany may say 'Italia' in responce because of that. (Probably subconciously)

"Definately Just a Cold" - Is the name of a trope on TvTropes that my beta says fits my fanfiction. It made me laugh. Gosh I love tropes.

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**Chapter 17 Preview :** Hug? Hug? Ne? Hug? And what's this about storming things? The message? Shit! Um... What do they have to do now? Clearly, discussions have to wait, some sort of action has to be taken. Now. Lest they end up with nobody to discuss. Oh, yeah. And, um... _shit_.

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Thanks for Reading!** Read and REVIEW please**! Every little bit helps and goes towards making me know what you guys like! PLEASE read and review! It helps me know that people are reading still, and especially now.

You guys are awesome.


	17. Backpfeifengesicht

**Disclaimer of this Chapter :** Prussia and America are in it. Tempers are flared. How oculd there NOT be any language in it? You're in for language. Oh... oh those guys. Gosh darn it.

**Ownership :** Story is mine. Hetalia... is not. Characters... are not. Sad Aru.

**Important Note : **ALL character actions are based off of CHARACTER traits, and is not making fun of/slandering or putting down any nation in question. This is based off of characterizations and not the REAL countries involved. Thank you very much.

Another delay. At least I'm still writing and posting chapters. Soon I'll get into a proper swing and they'll come more regularly. Got lots of stuff goin' on, and don't always have the time to write.

SAY THINGS TO OPHELION FOR CONSTANTLY BEING AN AWESOME BETA OF AWESOME.

This chapter was fun.

I ALSO GOT MORE FANART. CHECK IT OUT. GO TO MY PROFILE. LOOK FOR "PURPLE RAINBOW" DO IT. COMMENT ONIT. I demand it.

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**Chapter Seventeen Summary : **A resolution to act has been made. But that choice is not the best one to make... or is it? Alfred makes a choice, and takes all that comes at it because of it.

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**- Chapter 17 - Backpfeifengesicht -**

The situation could be taken any number of ways. With how Alfred had frozen for the briefest of moments, it was clear that the man had no idea how to react to the situation properly - for there were many factors to bring into the equation before he acted.

First, this was something big, something huge, something that Matthew _clearly_ had no idea had happened yet. Coupled with the puzzled look that his brother insisted on giving him, America concluded that no, this was definitely going to be _news_ to him. Could he risk it? What would telling Matthew do? Did Canada _really_ need to know?

Second, telling him could make it worse. America knew that maybe it was an exaggeration, that maybe he was overreacting to the situation, but he suddenly had the feeling that he didn't _want_ Matthew to know - at least, not yet. If Canada _didn't_ know, then America wanted to _keep_ it that way; especially if that meant the difference between breathing and suffocation.

If that answering machine message caused Canada to fall to the ground, struggling for breath, who _knows_ what knowledge of the message could do.

And third, the others didn't know it yet. Maybe it was better for England, France and whoever else was now involved to be informed of it _first_ before Matthew was.

Damnit, maybe they'd find out a better way of informing his brother without him collapsing with a brain haemorrhage or internal bleeding or whatever _else_ could take his brother in another violent symptom of an illness they just couldn't touch.

The fourth thing America realised was that he was sitting there in silence after his question for _far_ too long, and Canada was starting to stare at him funny for doing so. Matthew's eyes flicked between the phone and Alfred's face, clearly starting to make the connection that something to do with _that phone_ was bothering America immensely.

Shit.

It also wouldn't take a genius to remember _what_ exactly Alfred's question had been a few minutes prior. Two and two weren't hard to put together, especially if the cheat-sheet was lying just bare inches from one's fingertips.

Alfred snapped the phone shut with a _snap_ and started to make his way to stand up, Matthew's eyes following him all the while.

Self-conscious, but aware, America was watching his brother in turn, noting a strange expression that had leaked over his brother's face and demeanour - It was that same blankness that had taken over it before, that very same sort of vague confusion that Matthew disturbingly held when Alfred had initially asked how he was doing.

Canada seemed to debate for a second, his mouth opening, but it closed again and he lay back, turning his attention finally away from America and toward some unknown point before him.

This surprised America, who expected Canada to leap forward and _demand_ what all that had been about, not the silent and quiet Matthew who sat there like he didn't care. He had half a mind to just up and _tell_ him, but Alfred kept his own lips firm.

After a few more moments, Alfred decided to speak, "Ah... Sorry. I thought I accidently dialled your government." It wasn't the best lie in the world, but it would do, "I panicked for a moment that all they could hear was the rustle of my pants. It turned out it was some random person's answering machine message..."

He gave a rough laugh, and Matthew was looking back at him, indifferently.

If Canada's quietness and ease of accepting the lie was supposed to make Alfred feel any better, it was failing horribly. If anything, it proved to make America feel _more_ anxious and he started upward from where he had sat and made toward the doorway.

"Alfred...?" Matthew started, almost uncertainly.

America halted his steps. "Yeah Mattie?"

"... Can you tell Dad that I don't really want tea anymore? He doesn't need to bring me any," Matthew said, softly. "I'm going to sleep a little more, okay?"

Alfred sort of forced a hearty grin and gave a thumbs-up. "I can do that! Man, I wanna just sleep all day too, I'll join you soon if the day continues to be boring-as-hell."

A snuff of amusement, and America turned from the room, leaving his disturbingly quiet brother in his wake. Left behind in that quiet room, to whatever could possibly be running through his mind.

Normally Alfred could venture _some_ guess of what was going on in his brother's head. That was only because he let his emotions play so easily on his face sometimes. As of late, they had been surfacing more clearly due to his poor condition, and America could easily tell he was anxious and stressed most of the time. But right then? He seemed sort of _blank_. He couldn't read his expression at all save for the soft apologetic-ness.

His worry made his feet work faster and he came down the stairs in a crashing racket, nearly toppling over a certain Italian who was attempting to carry a tray up the stairs.

"_Uwaa_!"

"Holy crap!"

They may not have _crashed_ into one another, but it took all Alfred had to grab the wrist of Italy before he went backwards down the stairs, and to keep his own footing. Sadly, the tray of food had gone flying, and bits of sandwiches and fruit rained on them.

America gingerly let go of Feliciano's wrist, when it was clear he wasn't about to somersault backward down the stairs, right when Germany appeared, clearly concerned.

"What happened?"

Italy was the first to respond with a wail, "Uwaa! All of the delicious food I made for Mr. Canada! I made him some nice - and healthy, Doitsu - snacks for him! Now they are all over _everywhere_."

Ludwig stared dumbly at the mess, and then his eyes flickered to America, who didn't look too handsome with bits of lettuce adorning his head. "Explain. I heard you running down the stairs."

"... Ppftt." America brushed off the lettuce and Germany's verbal accusation. "It's my stairs. He should 'a watched himself!"

"I was being _extra careful_! You came out of _nowhere_!" Italy explained, waving his arms as if this proved his point better.

"I did no-" America's words died, and he apologised quickly, "- Sorry. Where's England and France?"

Germany, who was helping Feliciano now to pick up the pieces of exploded sandwich, looked up at the American with pinched eyebrows. "Kirkland and Bonnefoy are currently out. They have gone to the conference hall to sort out their own country matters before they return here."

"I need to... need... _shit_." America ran a hand through his hair.

Germany straightened, holding a handful of ham, lettuce, mayonnaise and bread. "If it's important, you may inform me of the issue. I may not be your parents, however, but I am just as involved in the situation as they are now."

"_They_ aren't my pa-" America shook his head. "Nevermind. I have a problem. No. Wait. We have a problem. _Matthew has a fucking problem_."

Concern. "Is something ailing Williams?"

"Something more than already? Yeah. Fuck. Not serious enough to be checked on. But... gah," he pulled the phone out of his back pocket when words failed him and he thrust it at Ludwig.

"... This is his cell phone..."

"I know that! Redial," Alfred gestured. "Just redial!"

"I don't see -"

"_Just do it._"

Uncertain, but worried, Germany opened the phone and did as he was instructed, unknowing to the number he was phoning as to the message that he was about to receive. Confusion was marked in place on Ludwig's face for a few moments as it rang, then horrified recognition plastered there once America was _sure_ the message had finally played through.

There was no ignoring that.

"This... This is..."

America gestured for the phone, but Germany made no movements to give it back. After a second, and letting his hand fall to his side, Alfred spoke. "We have another problem. Mattie's _acting weird_. I know England said that he was acting down or tired or _something_, but it's really noticeable now."

Ludwig was still focusing on the message, but nodded for Alfred to continue.

"I dunno... He's acting... _strange_. He blanked out when I was talking to him before. Has this... _indifferent_ expression on him. Like he's... like..." He didn't want to say it, so he didn't. "It's just _weird_. He's been like that - and now, worse - since his panic attack!"

Germany listened to the phone message again. "... Since the panic attack?"

"Yeah. S'worse now."

"..."

Italy was staring between them, hands together worriedly as his amber eyes flickered between them and then towards the stairwell.

"I... It was _disturbing_. I mean, I'd hate to say it, but when I kept this from Mattie and came down here, it was kinda fuckin' obvious I was hiding something. _But he didn't react to it_. He was totally fucking acting like nothing had really gone on."

"Hiding it?" Germany questioned at once.

"I didn't want him to know. _I don't want him to know_. Unless he really _has to_, I think Mattie is way happier not-knowing."

"... So Williams has _no_ idea that this has happened?"

"Yes."

"So we can safely assume that his lack of appropriate reaction to you was not because of the news?"

"Definitely!"

"..." Germany rubbed his chin with two gloved fingers. "... I believe that your choice was a sound one. However, his knowing or not knowing is not going to affect him physically."

"I... what?"

"I think it's still best to keep this from him."

"What do you mean...? Him hearing about it won't _affect_ him? What about what happened with the answering machine? When he heard _that message_ that they gave him! He stopped _breathing_!"

"That is because," Germany said gravely. "He has already reacted to this," he gestured with the phone. "And this is a recorded message. This was recorded hours ago. Unless the answering machine message which you _witnessed_ was being initially spoken. So, if my assumptions are correct, this message was recorded within the same timeframe as Matthew's subsequent panic attack early this morning."

Alfred froze. "What?"

Ludwig turned to Feliciano. "You said earlier if his panic attack was a reaction to something? Then I believe you were correct, Italy. If not the cause for the panic attack before, it might give light to the unexplainable paralysis that Williams had been explaining."

Italy didn't seem too pleased with the idea of being right for once.

"No... no way..."

"I think that this should remain between us and his parents," Germany said, folding the phone and placing it within his own pocket. "Williams should not be informed, and we should hinder any attempts he shall assuredly make to contact his government."

America felt sort of numb. "Goddamnit..."

"I apologise. There really was no helping this instance."

Ludwig turned to Italy before Alfred could respond and suggested quietly, "Feliciano, I know you made an abundance of food for all of us. You may portion my share to Williams to replace this," he gestured.

"Ne, is that really okay Doitsu?" Feliciano asked quietly.

"... Ja, Italia."

As Italy smiled brightly and then made loud exclamations of how 'wonderful and nice' Germany was, and made the attempt to attack the man in a hug, Alfred decided it was high-time to slink away. He didn't care anymore that the phone was not in his possession, there was no use for it anymore. It would have only proved to be a lead weight in his pocket, burning a hole there whenever he felt it hit against his leg.

He slipped past Italy and Germany, the latter of whom was trying to push the Italian off of himself with loud exclamations that it was just food, and there was no reason to act so happy about it.

Alfred made his decision. He had decided.

The determination and fire that had been there - been there before speaking with Matthew - returned with a vigour, returned with a spark and Alfred made his way heatedly towards the door.

Germany was distracted. Italy was distracted. Matthew was upstairs doing god _knows_ what, and England and France had made an unexpected temporary departure to sort out their own issues. Apparently.

America couldn't believe that England and France felt their issues to be more important than what was happening right then. His brother suffering was not an issue that could be just swept to the side. It was not something they could just sit down and _discuss,_ then, when they were too tired, work on something _else_ for a bit.

This was serious. This was another country. Another life. His goddamned _brother_.

If they weren't going to do anything right then about it, and especially after that message? _He_ was_. _He was going to do something about it and there was nothing they could do to stop him. _Fuck_ them and their want to take it slow. And _fuck_ them and their insistence that attacking the government with accusations wasn't going to do anything.

Oh hell no. He wasn't just going to _accuse_ them.

He shoved on his shoes roughly, stomping down on the heel before reaching for the handle of the door.

A curt voice came from his left, "_Going_ somewhere?"

Alfred turned his head to see Gilbert - who he completely forgot about - standing there, arms crossed, looking at him with raised eyebrows and an expectant face. There was no fooling the ex-nation. Prussia _clearly_ knew what America was up to.

"Yeah. A walk."

Gilbert almost seemed _amused_, and he casually went to grab his coat. "Let me come with you, huh? I'm getting bored here, and Birdie is probably sleeping."

Alfred's eyes narrowed slightly, untrusting. He glanced at Germany and Italy who were visible from just around the corner and nodded. "Sure." If that kept the albino's mouth _shut_.

Prussia grinned. "Good. I was gunna come anyway," he cheerfully announced to America, and he slipped on his coat and gloves. "No matter what you said."

The door closed quietly behind them, and Gilbert shoved his hands in his pockets as if they _were _just going on a casual walk together in the snowy weather. The clouds were darkening along the edges, and soon the soft flutter was either going to turn into a blizzard, or into an epic downpour like a few days prior. Neither nation - former or not - noticed this.

They walked quietly to the edge of the driveway when America stopped, turning to Gilbert. "M'not going for a walk you know..."

"Oh, I know."

"... Then I'll see you later," America turned, moving to go to the car. "Thanks for backing up my alibi."

Prussia barked a laugh. "Alibi? What alibi? I think it'll be kinda fuckin' obvious where you fuckin' were when they see your car is gone. Idiot."

"... Tell them I went to walk around a park or whatever. I dunno. Can't you _lie_?"

Gilbert still had that amused expression – that, frankly, was starting to piss America off - plastered on his face.

"Hmn... No. I don't think so."

Alfred turned, the keys to his car pressed into the lock and he snarled. "Why not?"

"Oh. I think you know 'why not'. The totally awesome me can _clearly _see that the fucking idiot 'hero' is gunna make a huge fuckin' mistake. The moment you drive off, m'gunna tell Bruder where you went, and he'll come after you to stop you," he cheerfully announced. "And dun' worry about him leaving Birdie. _I'll_ be here to watch over him. And Feli. Together we'll be doing a hell of a better job in helping than _you_ are going to do by getting in that fucking car_._"

"How _dare you_." Blue eyes flashed with anger and America took a sharp step forward. "You have _no idea _what I'm going to do."

"... Don't I? Didn't you tell me? Something about fucking storming the government and blaming them for all this shit that's gone down with Birdie? Oh, and by the way, _nice_ cover-up during the conversation earlier with the 'phoning them' idea. Haha. Fuck. Phoning them? Like hell you're that fucking passive. What, you can tell _me_ you wanna storm the government, but you don't want to tell anyone else?"

"Gilbert."

"Aww, Poor Alfred. I think he realised that his family would tell him '_no'_ if they heard what his idea _really_ was. Storming the government. Tell me, are you going to stop by to pick up a chainsaw while you're at it? Because, believe me, if you're going to fuck up, you might as well _royally_ fuck up," Prussia gestured. "Don't half-ass it. You might as well make it worse by _one hundred percent_."

Maybe it was what Gilbert wanted, but America advanced on the ex-nation, stepping away from the car, the keys left dangling in the lock.

"Aww, did I _insult _you? What, it was just an _idea_. Go on." Prussia gestured with his hands in a sweeping motion, like a mother shooing her child outside to go and play. "Go and be the fucking hero. Make Birdie _worse_."

"I am _not _going to make him _worse_," Alfred snapped, stopping uncomfortably close to Prussia. "Why the fuck are _you_ trying to fucking stop me? Huh? Do you not fucking _care_ about Matthew?"

Prussia's eyes narrowed slightly, the amusement lifted from his face and revealed his serious attitude. "I _do _care. A _lot _more than you if you decide to go through with this."

"I'm his fucking brother! Do you expect me to just stand idly by while this takes over him? Don't tell me otherwise you Prussian ass-wipe, because I don't give a _crap_ what you think!"

Gilbert slowly crossed his arms. "I don't expect you to stand idly by. But I'll sooner go back to the Russian bastard than let you hurt your brother even more. Your heart is in the right place, but your brain?" he tapped his temple, "Isn't."

America glared at him, and for one intense second, as he glowered at the slightly shorter ex-nation, he thought he was going to lash out and punch him. But he knew better. He had more important things to focus on than punching smug-ass Prussians, or trying to get across _why_ what he intended to do was so important. His fist clenched, still throbbing from his assault of two walls and a bit of pavement. But he didn't move it.

"I don't have time for this."

Alfred turned. Away from Gilbert and his accusatory stare. What did he know anyway? He did _not_ care for Matthew at all. No matter what Prussia said, he knew that he only spent time with Canada because Matthew openly provided pancakes and liked to drink beer with him once in a while. He only _liked_ Canada because of Matthew's pushover-ness when it came to Prussia's extremely obnoxious attitude.

He knew nothing, really. He wasn't going to let a punk-ass ex-nation stop him from what he needed to do.

That so-called punk-ass ex-nation grabbed the back of America's collar and clicked his tongue. "I don't think so."

_Now _America really wanted to punch him. He restrained himself and turned. "_What now? Just let it go! Leave me alone!_"

"No."

He slapped the hand viciously away. "This has _nothing_ to do with you. You know _nothing_ about this situation. You have _no idea _what you're doing! Leave me alone so I can do _what I know is right_! You. Know. _Nothing_."

He didn't know what he said, but Prussia's face had darkened considerably, and before he knew it, he was tugged down towards the other man's face, Gilbert's pale hand in a fist, holding onto the front of Alfred's shirt in a choke-hold.

"Don't you _dare_ tell me that I don't know what's going on," he hissed.

Shock aside, Alfred gritted, "Of course you don't. You have _no idea_ what's happening to Mattie. You have no idea how to _help_. But I do a-"

"_I know exactly what's happening to Matthew!_"

"No you d-"

"_LISTEN_. Listen, you fucking steaming pile of American _crap_."

America moved to protest, but a yank on his shirt shut him up.

"You don't _think_ I under-fucking-stand what it's like to be physically _pried_ away from what defines one as a country? Do you think I don't fucking _get_ what it's like to be denied the right to speak to my _own _government? Do you think _I'm so fucking STUPID _that I don't remember a single moment where I realised that _one by one_ I lost my ties to my _FUCKING COUNTRY!_"

Prussia wasn't done, he wasn't letting America in to speak, he just hissed, pulling the man's face closer to his own.

"I _know_ our situations _aren't_ the same! But I at least have _some vague understanding_ of what he's _going through._ It's not peaches and fucking _crème_ you _moron_!"

Still, America was not allowed to speak.

"I know enough. I know _just enough_, to be able to tell you, that if you are so idiotic, if you are going to be _such a huge moron_ that you want to go over there, and confront his government... _I KNOW _you will make it _worse_."

"I am no-"

"_YOU WILL._"

"I wo-"

"You. Will. You will make it _worse_. You think it's hard to watch him suffer now? What the hell do you think will happen to him when you fucking accuse them! What! Just _what_ do you think will happen when you verbally accost them for what 'they have done'? _WHAT?_ What the _fuck_ do you think that will accomplish? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING."

An intake of breath, "Get _off of me_!" America finally lashed out and sent a well-directed left-handed fist to Prussia's gut.

Winded, but deceptively strong, one of Prussia's hands remained gripping America's shirt as he half-buckled, letting out an 'oomph' of air. Recovering quickly, Gilbert took that thrown fist for an invitation of his own.

But instead of actually _punching_ him, Gilbert let go of Alfred's shirt only to take it up again at the back of the man's collar. He shoved Alfred downward, sending his face smashing towards the pavement of his own driveway.

If it was a fight he _wanted_...

Alfred caught himself before his nose and glasses could meet cement - and with agility, hands on the ground, he swept his legs to catch the back of Prussia's. Gilbert was sent backwards with a surprised shout, his arms flailing, relieving Alfred of his tight grip.

Prussia decided he wasn't going to take that lying down, and _tackled_ Alfred sideways onto the front lawn; just as the first signs of snowflakes began to litter down upon them both.

Struggling, they grappled.

It was an absolutely pathetic display. Because of the snow, and because of how they were on the ground, grappling each other, neither could even remotely manage to make the fight look _cool_. So they just turned over and over, trying to gain the upper hand by being the first to scramble to his feet and give the other a well-deserved kick.

But, before either of them could manage to _make_ it to their feet in the first place, they were usually yanked back down again into the piling snow.

Spitting clumps of snow and dirt, Prussia held the current upper hand, partly kneeling on America's chest, holding Alfred's good hand firmly to the ground.

"Had... enough...?" Gilbert said through wheezed breaths. His lip was bleeding from a very well-placed left-handed punch America had managed to sneak in a few moments before, but he paid it no mind.

The struggle was _exhausting_.

"Have... _you_?" America shot him a dirty glare along with his own breathed words. His anger may have flickered at moments, but it was only due to exhaustion - for every second that they remained fighting, was a second wasted towards helping his brother like he _intended_.

Alfred kneed Prussia in the stomach sloppily, enough so that he could slip from under him.

With a cry, and unexpectedly, Prussia tackled America back down to the ground.

"_Are... you... done...?_" Gilbert hissed, pressing down harder. "Are you!"

"Do... you _want_... another punch? To match the... first?" Alfred breathed, glaring upward at the Prussian. "Because... 'f ya don't _let... go..._ I'm going... to _kick_. your. _ass_."

"If you could," Prussia swallowed thickly, regaining his breaths only a little, "... you _would_ have... Now... Grow the fuck _up_."

Alfred had enough. He had enough and he decided that he couldn't take it anymore. It was a waste of time, and if he didn't do anything about it _now_, then it was just going to be more wasted time later!

Wriggling, America felt Prussia's hold on him wasn't actually complete. His entire lower half was free to do whatever it wanted, as Gilbert hadn't even put that into the equation.

Alfred hadn't wanted to hurt Prussia from the very start. If he had wanted to, even though he was mad enough, the fight would have been over _long_ before it began. But the fact that Gilbert insisted to let the fight drag on and _on_ - along with him being more of an opponent than expected - America decided to act.

Not entirely sorry, Alfred curled his leg quickly back, and his boot pressed into Gilbert's chest.

It all happened within an instant. America drawing back his leg, Prussia's realisation, and then the shove that sent Gilbert half-flying off of the American when Alfred had _kicked_ him off.

Prussia landed harshly on his back.

He wouldn't have stopped it even if he could _predict_ it.

Alfred stood in the silence that fell. He staggered upwards, wincing at re-aggravated wounds, and surveyed the damage dealt.

Gingerly, he stepped up to the crumpled man, and knelt down to observe the still and silent figure. He was only sorry that force was absolutely necessary.

Biting his lip, Alfred pulled on Gilbert's shoulder and turned him over, and was inwardly relieved to see there weren't any fountains of blood. Though, the Prussian man was probably in for one hell of a headache when he finally awoke.

Oh well. He had a hard head, didn't he? Years of dealing with Hungary must do that to a person. If he could survive hundreds of years, or so, of frying pans being thrown at his cranium, then surely this conscious-knocking blow would just be another for the tally.

America grabbed Prussia from under the armpits and dragged him off the lawn, onto the driveway, and up to the front door, which he leaned him against. Somebody would _eventually _find him. And if he was lucky, then maybe Gilbert would have forgotten. Or maybe would be smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

Alfred stood up, dusted his hands and strode to his car with purpose. Maybe he had gone overboard with getting Prussia to finally _stop_, but it was necessary. The pain his brother was in was _nothing_ compared to what he did to Gilbert. A headache was nothing compared to what those bastards in the government were torturing his brother with. _Nothing_.

His frustration and worry bubbled again in his chest and he climbed into his car and shoved his keys in the ignition. Glancing at the thankfully still-unconscious figure of Prussia in the rear view mirror, Alfred silently assured Gilbert that when he was back, Prussia was going to be _glad _that he did what he was going to do. He was sure of it.

He twisted the keys to start the car.

Silence.

Not even a _flicker_. Not even a single light on his dashboard came to life. Not a signal one.

Alfred stared at his dash blankly. He did so for several seconds before deciding that he had imagined it.

He twisted again.

Nothing. Again. _Nothing_. Not even a 'check battery' light flickered.

"Come _on_!" Alfred snarled and he tried at least ten more times to get his car to even show the _time_. But nothing.

Growling, America leant over, cursing how the world seemed to be against his brother getting better at all. He snapped open his glove box to get his flashlight so he could beat the engine into working order. If he was delayed because of _one_ faulty wire or a _flake_ of snow...

A piece of paper fluttered to the floor when he pulled out the flashlight. Apparently it had either been either attached to the light, or just left in the glove box itself. Subconsciously curious, Alfred casually picked it up and glanced at it.

The second read after a sharp double take was much more thorough. The anger rose in his stomach like bile and the insistent want to _kill_ spiked.

_"So... If you're reading this, clearly the awesome me was too busy to try to stop you from being an idiot. Long story short, I removed the car battery. Good luck finding it! Seriously man. You have any idea how easy it was for me to break into your car, and steal the battery? Good thing I'm awesome AND German. Maybe while you look for it (you won't find it easily by the way) you should maybe rethink your battle plans._

_Good luck and have fun._

_Love, the most epical awesome me, Gilbert._

_PS : Your left passenger door lock is kinda broken now. Sorry bro._

_PSS : Also, if you're reading this, this means that you are REALLY fucking predictable and I totally called it."_

The anger America felt was so inexplicable that all he could do was stare at the note and let out inarticulate sounds. The note quaked in his hands. So _that_ was where Gilbert had gone out to 'walk' right after the discussion. He didn't go out to fucking _walk_ at all!

It was a good number of minutes before he regained his voice and cried in absolute, strangled, fury, _"YOU ARE SO FUCKING DEAD!_"

. . .

"- I am glad that we do not 'ave to worry about our own country issues for a few days," France said as he guided the car down a snowy road. "It is relieving that they are so 'elpful."

England was sitting in the passenger's for once, exploiting the man to drive him around. In the back seat was a curled up ball of white fluff that, when uncurled, could be recognised as a large white bear by the moniker of 'Kumajirou'. The Englishman sighed and finally nodded to France's statement.

"I certainly agree," he said, sipping tea from a Styrofoam cup. "... It does make it easier. Though," he reasoned, "They probably were agreeable because of the conference. We already had the chance of being away for a while because of it, so it really wasn't much of a stretch for them."

"I am just glad that I will not 'ave to deal with strikes while I am trying to treat mon petit and make 'im feel better!" The Frenchman announced.

Arthur let loose a small sound of amusement. France had so much trouble with those strikes. Still. The poor man, not that he could care less, had plenty of strikes left right and centre. "One would assume," he teased, "That you would have been used to them already. What's gone on strike now? The police? The metro? _Perverseness_? Oh god, please be the last one, I could do with a respite."

The grunt of displeasure was enough to lift the Englishman's mood temporarily.

France didn't respond to England verbally, and instead said, "It is a good thing we did not forget petit's bear! I think 'e would be terribly sad if we 'ad left 'im be'ind so long! But 'e is now fed and will be brought 'ere."

"Another mouth to feed..."

"Oui," France nodded. He was always glad to talk about something other than a topic directly addressing Matthew. Like, meal preparations, for one. It was helping, but wasn't something too directly involved with Canada. He'd leave that for Germany and England and America... He'd just stay with coddling and cooking. "There is... You, moi, L'Amerique, mon petit, mon frère, Germany, Gilbert and now the bear!"

"Good god. I refuse to cook for that many people. I can make tea, but I flat-out refuse to _cook_."

France glanced. "That simple statement makes me so _'appy _to 'ear. I will cook. Mon frère Feliciano will 'elp. Between us, we all will be fed!"

"_Good_."

France pulled into America's driveway. "Ah. We are back! I am going to go straight upstairs," he announced, pulling the keys from the ignition, "and I am going to 'ug and take care of mon ange!"

And so they piled out of the car into the thick snow. In the time that they had been gone - and it had been a few hours - quite a bit of snow had managed to accumulate on the ground. It was fluffy, and white; and as they trudged through the driveway to get to the front door, they stirred great plumes of white puffy dust all around their feet.

Francis was happy to finally be 'home' for his child, England was just happy to be _inside_ as he clambered in.

Kumajirou lumbered in after him, automatically walking past him and straight up the stairwell and around the corner. France followed, hefting a few bags of food supplies that he deemed were 'absolutely necessary'. Being that he and his brother were gourmets, this was no real surprise.

But, what was a surprise was the strange _quiet _that was over the American's household.

With Gilbert, Feliciano and America under the roof, there had to be _some_ sort of commotion or ruckus going on, but silence rang through the house unhindered.

England was the only one that noticed, and once he removed his shoes, he sought out to ironically investigate the source of the silence.

Germany was in the living room, standing over someone on the couch.

Arthur gestured as he walked in, "Oh! Hello. It's really quiet in here, quite a surprise really -" he stopped. "What the _hell_ happened to him?"

Germany was leaning over, pressing an icepack to the back of Prussia's head, who was wincing and looking very, very irritable.

"I have no idea. He refuses to tell me."

"I _told_ you," Gilbert gritted, "I was walking outside and I fuckin' slipped and fell."

Ludwig sighed and adjusted the pack. "Bruder, you did not just 'slip and fall'. Your lip was bleeding, you have multiple bruises, and Feliciano found you leaned up against the doorway. It is _clearly obvious_ that you did not slip and fall."

"..." Prussia looked off to the side.

"You're lucky you don't have a concussion!" he chastised sharply.

"That's because I'm _awesome_," Gilbert retorted with a sudden wicked grin plastering across his face. That faded soon though, and he winced, groaning into the headache that throbbed neatly against his temples.

Germany sighed and he demanded for Prussia to hold the icepack to his own head; if he wasn't going to impart the whole story, then Ludwig wasn't going to do him any favours. He turned to Arthur.

"I think it's clear he got into a _fight_," Germany explained, speaking over Prussia's objections. "And furthermore, Jones is still out."

"Still?" England inquired. "Did he leave? I'd have thought he'd stay with Matthew. At any rate, his car is still there."

"A walk. It was some time ago that he departed."

"... Ah..."

England glanced at Gilbert, not too sure what to think of this revelation coupled with the fact that Alfred seemed to be temporarily missing in action. He sighed, rubbing his temple. He had better things to be worrying about than Prussia getting into apparent fights and Alfred going for extended wa-

Prussia sat up like a rocket as if he suddenly came to a horrible realisation. "Fuck!"

Germany took a wild step back in shock.

"Shit!" Prussia said again, and his focus flickered between Germany and England before it just settled on England, but clearly what he had to say was meant for everyone in the room. "You have to find Alfred! I had no idea he was out!" He turned to Germany in the most scathing manner. "You didn't _tell me_ that he had left! I thought he was in his room fucking sulking when I saw the car was here!"

"You never as-"

"FUCK!"

"Bruder!" Germany grabbed Gilbert's shoulders sharply and turned the shorter, but elder, man towards himself. "Calm down! What's wrong?"

Prussia _seethed_. "That fucking _asshole_. You wanna know the fucking truth, bruder? Though I think you suspect half of it already... The truth is - I _did_ get in a fight. With THAT ASSHOLE."

"That _wh_-"

"Don't play fucking dumb England! Your fucking ass-wipe of a son! I knew what he wanted to do. But I didn't want to make a fucking _scene_ of it, so I decided to do him a _favour_ and stop him before any of you found out!" He growled while massaging the back of his head with his palm.

Germany suspected the fight had been with Alfred, but he hadn't suspected it had any good reason beyond flared tempers. He urged his brother seriously, "Gilbert. What were you trying to stop him from doing?"

"Yeah. Before? He wanted to go to the government and _kick their asses_. He told me himself when we were talking back after Birdie's panic attack," Prussia explained quickly. "And I _knew_ he was gunna fuckin' act on it. I saw it _clearly_ on his face! So I went out to _stop him_."

Arthur spluttered. "Kick their what? What? Alfred wouldn't do such a thing!"

Prussia glanced at England. Arthur either was in automatic parental-defence mode, or he didn't quite understand the extent of the rage or anger that America could produce when a direct and very _close_ family member of his was threatened. The man had a very large heart, but to protect what it treasured, it meant he rarely used his brain.

"He _would_. And he was going to! Look, my plan was, initially, to _remove_ the car battery, if I couldn't confront him. So I DID THAT. And then I found the chance to confront him - _bam_! We get in a fuckin' fist-fight," he gestured with his hand sharply. "The next thing I know is that Feli is shouting bloody murder and I get dragged inside by _you_," he pointed at Germany.

"Is this tru-"

"_Yes it's true. _Go and _get_ him! He's probably already found another way there! If we don't fucking stop him, then he's going to violently confront Matthew's government!" He waved his arms. "And that shit's not _right_!"

There was a long and terrible silence.

Of course, as much as England wanted to, he couldn't blame Gilbert. The man had done everything correctly, but it had all blown up in his face. He knew first hand that when his son was determined, it took a lot more than roadblocks to stop him. He'd talk to Prussia about all of it _after_ this had been cleared up.

But for the moment, he was so stunned by the revelation that all Arthur could do was just stand there.

Two other people besides the ones for which it had been intended had overheard the conversation.

The first came dashing out of the kitchen. "Mon dieu! That is terrible! We 'ave to find l'Amerique right away before something terrible 'appens!"

But it was the second voice that brought all their attentions.

Standing at the banister that overlooked the first floor living room, was Matthew. He stood weakly, hands on the rail and he looked down in pure, unrefined shock. If it wasn't for the situation, it would have been noted that it was the liveliest Canada had looked for the past few days.

"Alfred... is going to... confront my government?" Canada managed.

Arthur's eyes flicked upward and he paled. "Oh dear..."

Canada quickly made his way towards the stairs, but was intercepted by Germany who began to ascend them the moment Matthew had made an appearance. But instead of leading him back up the stairs, he carefully guided Canada down them.

Gilbert's angry atmosphere nearly completely sobered at Canada's presence.

Matthew looked between everyone when Germany and himself stopped, looking most pointed at Prussia than anyone else.

"Is Alfred really going to... um... _attack_ my government?"

Prussia bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. "Yeah. Sorry Birdie. I tried to stop him. But... um... He hits _really hard_ ya know?"

"But... why would he...? I mean, I can kind of understand. I'm not completely in the dark, but... Unless something else _happened_, I didn't think that Alfred would do something so reckless without a _reason_."

It was Germany's turn to look off to the side briefly. He alone in the room held the knowledge of the nature of the phone call. Matthew's parents had been away during America's panic over the message; he assumed Gilbert hadn't overheard, and Alfred-

- It was very likely that message was the turning point.

Ludwig turned back to Canada.

"If there was anything, we should discuss it at a later time. Right now, finding Jones before he acts recklessly is of utmost importance."

"Final-fucking-lee!"

"Kirkland, I believe you and I should locate Jones," Germany began his instructions. "Bruder I want y-"

"I'm going too, asshole."

"... Bruder. I was _going _to ask you to see if you could head him off." Germany interrupted before his elder brother went off in a unjust tirade against him. "You are no longer an official representation; your appearance at the official offices wouldn't bring as much controversy as our appearances would. If you see Jones, contact us. _Do not cause a scene_."

Canada spoke up. "I... I want to go too!"

Everyone in the room looked at Matthew.

"It's my government, isn't it? So this is my responsibility. I mean, all of _everything_ that has been happening is because of me, and I want to _help_. Maybe I could stop Alfred. He's more likely to listen to me if I ask him to stop than any of you." Canada's eyes flicked between each of them pleadingly. "Please?"

Germany paused long and hard. "If we encounter Jones, we will phone you and you can talk to him."

"But I -"

"Kirkland, come. Bonnefoy, stay here for now unless you are needed."

"But-!"

"Oui!"

"Feliciano will remain too."

"But -"

"Let's go." Germany nodded at his two companions.

England and Prussia were eager to follow him.

"B... But!" Canada looked wildly at them.

What? He couldn't go? This was his government! It was _his government_ that America intended to go out and attack! This wasn't some matter he could sit back and _wait_ for a result. This was his own government! How could they expect him to remain?

France's hand squeezed Matthew's shoulder and he started to turn him away from the view of the front door, biting his lip. "Petit, everything will be alright. I think l'Amerique is just stressed, non...? This will be easy..."

"But... I need..."

His eyes flicked wildly back at the door where the others had already departed. He looked back to his father with a pleading expression. "Papa... I really need..."

"Shh... mon ange..." France urged shakily as he guided his son towards the stair.

_"Je ne suis pas votre ange!_" Canada snapped and he slapped the hand away.

At that moment, the sounds of the two remaining functional cars roared to life. France jerked back from Canada as if burned; just as the sounds of retreating vehicles faded into the snowy distance.

There was silence again before anything else sounded, Feliciano was at the banister now, biting his lip and looking scared beside a very curious Kumajirou.

"It's _my _government," Canada pressed angrily to his father. "My. Government. _Nobody _can tell me that I can't be involved!"

"P.. petit... s'il vous plaît..."

Matthew held out his hand. "I need a phone."

"... Pourquoi...?"

"I'm going to at the _very least_," he pressed, "Tell them to be on the lookout! I have no idea why Germany didn't think of that before! I can _forewarn_ them about my brother."

Scrambling, France dug through his pockets and deposited his own cell phone into his son's hand. At that very moment, he had no idea what the truth really was; of _what_ had been the real final straw that turned an angry fantasy of America's into a real goal. Of the truth that of any person in that house, Canada was the very _last_ person that needed to hear that message.

"There. Call them," he urged.

* * *

**Author's Note :** A delay again. Stuff happening, also the holidays and new years! So that was a big part to why I haven't updated so quickly. Hopefully the next few will be sooner. Hopefully. No promises yet though.

The chapter title? Don't directly translate it. Just look it up on google. The translators don't seem to translate it quite right... The real meaning is hilarious.

Also, this was REALLY fun to write. A lot. I really enjoy writing as Prussia, and America... and... all of them! And yay! Look! France isn't invisible. And they remembered Kumajirou.

Who?

And GAH. THANKS FOR ALL THE REVIEWS. And the _fanart_. You guys make me seriously happy. You really do.

**Edit : **Changed the French. There is a reason why I avoided using it in the earlier chapters. I'm TERRIBLE at it. If anyone wants to offer to be my french consultant (for the EXTREMELY RARE times that I'll use it), and can give me a translation very quickly, then please do. For the sake of the french-speaker's EYES.

Thanks to Ariana-tan and Polly-P for pointing it out.

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen Preview : **Well... This isn't particularly good, now iffs it? Any of it, really. Something is going to happen. And it isn't going to be good. The question is... Will it happen to Matthew... or Alfred?

* * *

Thanks for Reading! **PLEASE READ AND REVIEW**! You've all already been so awesome and gave me basically 500 reviews! This astounds me! So happy!

So continue to review and tell me what you guys like and that you are reading, all so I know what I've done right, and so I can just do BETTER for you guys!

SERIOUSLY. ALL OF YOU ARE SO FRIGGIN AWESOME EH.


	18. Representative Liaison Office

**Disclaimer of this Chapter :** Swearing... NARRATIVE swearing. As my awesome beta put it... Alfred, you swear even though you're not speaking. XD So... Yeah.  
**Ownership :** Don't own Hetalia or anything! But since I started writing I have like... 8 figures, 2 DVD's, 1 plushie, and 2 Manga. Not bad, eh! ... But that doesn't make me an owner.  
**Important Note :** ESPECIALLY FOR THIS CHAPTER. As this story gets more into the government, I must STRESS that everything I make up is just that... MADE UP. I am not expressing ANY opinion of the Canadian (or other) Government, and this is merely for plot-device awesomeness. Okay? As well as, ALL character actions and interactions are based off of CHARACTER TRAITS. I am not making fun of/slandering or putting down any nation in question. Thanks.

Well! I worked hard for you guys and also was working on other stuff! I'm going on vacation! It kept me busy to prepare, and I have updated this pretty much just before I am going to hitch a ride on a bus to get to the airport.

THAT'S HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU GUYS.

I might have chances to write when I'm gone. Maybe. Maybe not. AT ANY RATE. I have given you this.

THANKS TO MY AWESOME-BETA OF AWESOME.

* * *

**Chapter 18 Summary : **There was just one thing you shouldn't have done, Alfred. Just one. Why can't you listen?

* * *

**- Chapter 18 - Representative Liaison Office -**

Pale purple eyes widened, a sharp intake of breath was taken, and the cell phone that rested in pale trembling fingers clattered to the floor uselessly, leaving the hand hanging in midair as complete shock took over.

Italy was rocketing down the stairs in horrified realisation, and France was dumbfounded at the complete one-eighty that his son had taken. Feliciano knew what he had failed to recognise, and had only just rushed down to stop it.

But it was too late.

The message had rung out in Canada's ear as a deafening wave, numbing all his thoughts and sending an unpleasant ring through his mind. He stood there, deaf, hand _still_ half curled by his ear as if he was still listening to that message. And he might as well have been. It played over and over in his mind... and on the floor.

The mobile quietly, lamely played the dreaded message, until it was quickly snatched up by a softly panicking Italy who shut it fiercely to end its torment.

France took Matthew's shoulder quickly, and Canada was unaware. All _Canada_ knew was the sickening feeling of loss playing repeatedly in his mind, in a loop that he couldn't even bare to _begin_ to believe was true.

But for some reason, while it shook him to his core, it felt like he already should have _known_. It wasn't new. It shouldn't have been news. He should have known. He should have _known_!

But... why didn't he know? Why didn't he know that the line had been axed? How could he have _not_ known, not understood? Was it not his duty as a Country _Representation_ to know what was happening to _his_ country at all times? Shouldn't he have _instantly_ become aware that the line had been cut?

... How many other things like this had happened behind his back? _How many other things?_

Italy and France were both trying to reach the quaking Canadian; holding him steady as he had silently started to shake. They spoke, but the words only came to him muffled as hands gripped his shoulders tightly to gain his attention.

Italy was pouring apologies betwixt tears and half-explaining to his brother - in rushed Italian - how he had ultimately _failed_ in the one duty that he should never have failed at. France had no time to quell Feliciano, so he paid him no mind, only focusing on his son.

It felt like hours, when in fact only a matter of seconds had really passed since the phone had clattered to the floor. Time was moving at a molasses-dripping _crawl_ and Matthew was trapped in a whirlwind of unknown emotion and feeling.

One feeling, however, broke out in the howl of whatever it was, and he spoke, not entirely realising he was doing so, "I... I think I'm going to be sick."

There was a _flurry_ of movement and Matthew was ushered to the nearest bathroom with ferocity. He just barely made it too, as his pallor had grown frightful and he just managed to collapse on his knees and up-heave pretty much everything he had eaten that day.

It was those aggressive actions that sent reality crashing down on Matthew again, and time sped back up to its normal pace. The only thing in his mind now was un-measured embarrassment, guilt, and the pounding of his heart in his ears as he heaved breaths after retching so violently.

A hand pressed against his back that he instantly recognised as his dear Papa's, and he could feel Italy using damp cloth wipe his mouth apologetically. A glass was pressed to his lips and he finally re-opened his eyes to take the glass with a weak, 'thank you'.

"Petit, can you 'ear moi?" France asked, helping Canada sit up straight so he could turn him away from the toilet. "Can you...?"

"Oui Papa..." Matthew managed. "I'm... sorry. I'm really sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"You -!"

However, Italy was cut off with a sharp hand and France made due to explain himself, "You 'ad every reason to react like this, petit. I 'ave just 'eard, briefly, what 'appened from Feliciano. If I 'ad known, I'd 'ave stopped you from listening."

Italy flinched.

"_Which_ - and I must stress this - is not anyone's _fault_ even if you did..." Francis said pointedly so Feliciano wouldn't wallow in guilt that really he shouldn't be feeling. Honestly, how was he really supposed to expect something like _that_ to happen so suddenly!

"M... m'still sorry."

"N-ne!" Italy brightened up slightly forcibly and waved one of his hands. "It's fine! Really!"

"Petit... you 'ave every right to react like that. I nearly did myself," he said gravely. "Come up, mon Ange. Can you walk? Let us get you upstairs and back in bed -"

"No. No bed."

France was helping his son to stand, but paused in turning to him. "You clearly need to rest mon mign-"

"No bed," Matthew pressed.

Italy reached out and smiled the best he could. "If he doesn't want to go to bed, then he doesn't have to, ve... Let's go to the living room! Mr. America has a really big living room - lots of room for all of us!" He began to gesture.

Pursing his lips, Francis silently agreed and guided Canada out of the bathroom and to the living room while Italy, without complaint, cleaned up the mess left behind.

Once sitting - Matthew refused to lie down - Francis put an arm around his son's shoulder. "Petit... Tell me, 'ow do you really feel about this?"

Canada stared at his hands, "I don't really... know how I feel. I'm not sure."

"If you are mad, and trying to 'ide it, don't," France encouraged. "If I were you, I'd be so angry! I would be sure everyone knew 'ow angry I was! I'd tell of as many people as possible!" He gestured sharply to emphasis his point. "Then I would get a bottle of wine and get very drunk..." He paused in horror. "Not that I think it is good if you get drunk, Mathieu!"

Matthew's laugh was dry, but sincere enough. He shook his head. "No... I don't feel mad - at least, not yet. I feel like... I kinda already _knew _but didn't realise it. I was just really shocked. That's a bit of an understatement though..." His eyes migrated to the hallway where the bathroom was. "... Italy doesn't have to -"

"Non. 'e feels a bit guilty for not warning moi about the phone message. 'e needs to let 'imself feel a bit better."

Finally Canada realised what France had been implying before and he turned to him in surprise. "What? Italy knew about the message?"

"Oui. What I could get from 'is... rapid Italian - I can understand it, but only so much - is that l'Amerique 'ad discovered it and 'e told Germany and mon frère about it."

"Why didn't th-"

"It was their choice, petit. And I understand it. L'Amerique was probably angry, and Feliciano and Germany are not your family. Per'aps they wanted to wait till later to tell you."

Canada pressed his lips together and decided to not question it, his hands fisted into his pants. Then something finally came to him in a rush of understanding: _what_ exactly Alfred was going to do. Maybe England and Germany (and Prussia) had already realised it, but-

"... The Liaison Offices."

"Pardon?"

"_That's _where Alfred is going. He's going to my Liaison Offices. I mean, he could've just gone directly to the capital, but he's going to the branch that deals _directly_ with me. I wouldn't be surprised."

Francis blinked, turning. "Are you sure? I'd 'ave thought l'Amerique would 'ave gone straight to your Prime Minister."

Matthew shook his head. "I know Alfred. I know he'd want to rush in there all 'Action Hero', but I think this situation is a bit... different. The Liaison Offices are the people _who I phone_. They can put me through directly _to_ my Prime Minister. They also handle all my paperwork and things. It really was pretty handy when it came about at first... But anyway, it was _they_ who cut my phone line."

"... That makes sense! L'Amerique probably is going to go there first. Tell me, where is it?" He had pulled out his under-used cell phone and opened the messaging system.

Canada paused for the briefest of moments. "... It's in Ottawa. It's actually fairly close to Prescott, where the border is, because there's a sub-division that deals with International Representations - but especially America - and Alfred has actually _dealt_ with them before."

"That is much closer," France replied and he addressed the message with the new information to Germany, Prussia and England and pressed 'send'.

"... Thanks..."

A moment of silence passed, and France picked up that the sudden burst of energy that Matthew had been feeling had dwindled. He pressed another comforting hand to his son's shoulder.

"Petit..."

"... Papa... Alfred has already been reported to be gone for _hours_. It doesn't take _that long_ to get there. What if... What if..."

Francis just let him speak.

"What if... He has _already done_ something, and I can't feel it yet? What if something _huge_ has already happened, something horrible, and I have no clue? I mean... I _should_ have known about the phones! I should have - the moment it happened. When they were _deciding it_ even! But... I didn't. I had no clue. I had no clue..."

Francis pulled Matthew towards himself in a light hug, Canada's face pressed against his shoulder in non-argument to the movement. "Petit... You do not _know_. I believe that it will be _very obvious_ if 'e does something stupid. L'Angleterre and the others will stop 'im before 'e makes a fool of 'imself."

Matthew glanced at a phone sitting in a wall-dock over his father's shoulder. "I hope so..."

"Petit… I know this seems 'ard right now… And mon dieu, it is certainly frustrating, but all of this will work out, non? L'Amerique is not stupid enough to do something so terrible to 'urt you. I am sure 'e will realise soon enough."

Canada sighed against his father and closed his eyes for a moment.

Certainly, Alfred had his heart in the right place, and that made Matthew's own heart swell with happiness that America would fight _so hard_ for him. It did, especially knowing that normally the elder brother wouldn't spare Matthew a second-glance on a normal day.

But somehow, Matthew felt that he needed to do _something_. Anything - anything that could help with bringing his brother back.

It was his duty.

. . .

Alfred had made it to the border at Prescott and knew that he had only sixty-minutes until he made it to Ottawa, Matthew's Capital. But it wasn't the main Parliamentary buildings that he was aiming for. Oh no. It was the CIRLO buildings; the 'Canadian Intranational Representative Liaison Offices'.

Matthew had been exactly right; not that Alfred knew that.

America was going for the offices that started all this shit, and if the corruption didn't end there, he was going to climb the ranks until he could scrub the ladder clean of all the fucking _scum_ that started it all.

... His only issue right then was the blizzard of snow that decided to drop right on their border. It was mass chaos from a commuter's point of view. Snow piled everywhere, traffic was down to a crawl, and if Alfred didn't move another _inch_ in five minutes, then he was going to surely blow a _fuse_.

It was absolutely, undeniably, _unparalleled_ aggravation, anxiety and annoyance bundled into one neat frustrated ball.

It didn't help that every five or so seconds he'd glance at his cell phone that was sitting on the passenger's seat of the car. He hadn't the heart to turn it off. He was too afraid that if something happened to Matthew when he was gone, and the phone was off, then he wasn't there to help somehow.

He had actually gone ahead and turned his cell off in the beginning - right after he had felt his ripe anger against Prussia and had asked one of his neighbours a bit _harshly_ if he could borrow their car. His guilt mounted by that action grew so great, that it only had been turned off for ten minutes before he had frantically checked if he had any messages telling of Matthew suddenly throwing up blood, or worse.

Thankfully, no-such messages had come.

That was a sobering incident that kept America's boiling anger in check. For the time, he was holding firm onto his composure for the sake of his brother. He could not afford to fuck it up.

His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, the bandages under his glove feeling uncomfortable and tight. Letting out a whoosh of breath and shutting his eyes, Alfred temporarily turned off the car; as it didn't seem like he was going to be going anywhere any time soon.

Minutes into his quiet revere, his cell phone went off.

It jingled a nonsense song as he stared at it for but a second, then America tentatively reached over to it, and picked it up.

The number was coming from _his own house_.

His stomach dropped and he nearly let go of the phone in his haste to answer it. His voice was quick and clipped as he asked, "Is Mattie okay?"

_"... I'm mostly okay, Al..."_

Alfred was surprised. He hadn't been expecting _Matthew_ of all people to drop him a line during all this. "Matthew? What are you doing on the -"

_"Alfred. I know where you are going. Or where you already are," _he said. Matthew wasn't going to let Alfred have any room for discussion other than what _he_ wanted to talk to America about.

America swallowed. He knew he should've tied Prussia up in a tree when he had the chance.

"Mattie..."

_ "Please Alfred. Don't 'Mattie' me right now. I don't want to deal with it. You need to come home."_

Alfred swallowed again, this time it felt thicker on the way down. "Matt - I really can't come home right now. I'm nearly there an-"

_"... So you haven't gotten there yet?_" Did Canada's voice sound oddly... relieved?

"Fuck no. I'd have already been _home _if the stupid weather didn't decide to turn to _shit_ on us! This is complete and utter _bull-crap_. I've been in the same line-up for well over an _hour_ now."

_"... Good."_

"Good? _Good?_ Mattie that is not fucking _good!" _He squeezed the steering wheel with one gloved hand. "When has that ever been fucking _good_? Look, Matt. I can kind of understand, and you don't completely get what m'gunna do, but believe me, it's for the better that I _go_ and the sooner the be-"

"_Come home_."

Alfred's mouth worked when he tried to think of thoughts in return, but he was coming up with blanks. "Matt-"

"_Please_." Was Matthew's voice starting to sound more pinched?

"... I _can't_. I'm going to make things _better_. I am going to be your big brother and your _hero, _Matt." In his head, he added, 'I am going to stop your suffering.'

Canada took a few breaths that were easy to hear over the phone, they were shaky. "_Alfred... I heard the message. I know why you're going, and where you're going."_

"You w-... What!"

_"... A-and... Dad, Germany and Gilbert are all out after you Alfred. They are all trying to get there before you. No doubt they know about the weather so they might try things to avo-"_

It was America's turn to cut Matthew off, and he did so sharply. "You heard the message! When? How!"

_"Doesn't matter _how_ Alfred,_" Canada half-bit, _"Right now I just care about what _you're_ going to do! Don't make an ass out of yourself! You're making a huge mistake!_"

Why was he...? Why was...? Why was he getting scolded by Canada? Of all the people that should have agreed with him, that should have _understood_ what he was doing, he figured that Matthew was it; that Matthew was the person who would have _agreed_.

But it didn't seem that way.

"Mattie," he said with unintended anger. "You don't _understand_."

_"I do understand!"_

"You _don't_. I'm not going to stand around doing shit-all while you _suffer_. You're getting _worse_ Matt, and no amount of doctor's visits and _aimless discussions_ is going to make you better!"

_"Alfred... _Think about this_."_

Alfred sighed, closing his eyes and starting up the car again. He saw that the line was finally moving. "I'm sorry Matt." He had to.

On the other end of the line, it sounded as if Matthew had given a choked sound coupled with a gasp.

"... M-matt? Are you okay?" Alfred quickly asked, nearly bashing his borrowed car into the fender of the one ahead of him.

Canada's voice came back pained. _"Please Alfred. Come home... I want you to come home... P-please..."_

"Matt? What's wrong? Matt."

Rapid French now invaded the background noise of the phone, along with rustling. Was Italian being spoken too?

Matthew's voice sounded breath-heavy when he finally spoke again, "_S-sorry Alfred. S-sound pathetic right now b... but I really am s-serious. You _have_ to c-come home. O... or..."_ A shuddering sound broke his sentence. "_... n... no pancakes for... _fiveyears_..."_

"Matt," Alfred's grip on his steering wheel increased tenfold. "Matthew, this is no time to be joking! What's going on! France is there, right?"

Canada whispered, "_Don't make this worse, Alfred. Don't make this _worse_..._"

"Matt! Mattie! Come on Mattie! Give me some kinda response, _are you okay_?"

"…_Come home…_"

"Matthew! MATTHEW! What's _wrong_!" America nearly dented the steering wheel with his panicked grip.

The phone clicked all of a sudden, and the line died.

Alfred's breath hitched and he _slammed_ one fist on the steering wheel letting out a loud echoing _beep_ that reverberated through the jammed line.

"_GOD-FUCKING DAMMIT MATTIE!_"

He breathed, releasing his hand from its fist and pulled back from the wheel. He ignored the returned angry beeping calls of the surrounding cars and just _breathed_.

His hand shook, and it took all his willpower to not crush the cell-phone that now lay dormant in his hand.

No... No... He had to go ba-

No. He couldn't.

If Matthew needed help, he needed it _now_. He wanted to go back so bad. Every nerve in his body ached to go back to his brother. But he told himself. No. He had to. This was the ultimate proof.

He had to.

And if he had any doubts before, they were all gone now.

He prayed that his brother was going to be alright, and prayed that after this, he could go back to noogying the hell out of him randomly, stealing Nanaimo bars, and raiding his kitchen for a good cup of maple-infused-Joe.

They were going to _pay_.

. . .

Matthew stood alone.

Canada's home was dark and quiet around him, the only spark of light available filtered through half-parted shades, sprinkling moonlight across a dusty old couch and untouched papers splayed on a coffee table. It was cold. The eerie silence lay like a blanket, only just barely penetrated by his own wispy breaths.

At first, he wasn't so much confused as to _why_ he was there; he was more or less concerned that he couldn't remember the moment of how he _got_ there. So he stood there in the complete dark, nonplussed and entirely unsurprised.

After a moment of blank thought, he started to move. It was automatic and fluid, as if he knew where he already wanted to go. And so, nearly ghost-like, he turned, and strode out of the living room and up the stairs. His soft steps brought him to the landing of his own hallway, and he walked down it. A sliver of light beckoned him through a crack of a slightly ajar door.

Stepping towards it, Matthew remained ghost-like as he approached the door, and pulled it open by fractions – just enough for him to see inside. His curiosity was mounting and the blank feeling was finally starting to wane as his interest weighed in.

"... What do you suppose we do now?" England asked, being the first person that Canada had noticed. He was standing there, calm and straight. One hand was delved in his pocket and the other fiddled aimlessly with his collar. "... I am _certainly_ out of ideas… But I suppose it's too late now, isn't it?"

Canada shifted in recognition of his father. Though his indifference was finally fading, and he was really starting to wonder _why_ he was there and _what_ was happening, Matthew kept his mouth shut.

Too late? Too late for what? He wondered what they were talking about; and instead of just outright asking himself, Matthew listened.

_Ivan_ spoke next, "I think... we do nothing, da? Nothing more can be done." His voice was almost cheerful; the same sort of simpering cheerfulness that usually invaded his tone.

Russia? Russia? That was... incredibly odd. Why, of all people, was Russia there? Then again, how could he rightly ask that question when he, himself, had no idea why _he_ was there? Why, when he remembered all the sudden that he should have been at Alfred's, was he back at his _own house_?

What had happened between point A and point B?

He kept quiet, however, and continued to listen.

America spoke this time, "It's not like we can do anything about it now. We should just give up. I mean, we're just gunna be _wasting time_ now." He moved away from the bed with a faint, slightly annoyed sigh. "And after so much trouble I went through!"

"Oui… It is a shame, non?"

France also moved away from the bed, giving Canada a clear enough view. He gasped. He wasn't surprised at all that his dear Papa was there, nor that his brother was there, but rather at the figure - or form - that lay on the bed.

He couldn't see who, or what it was, but _whatever_ it was - Canada already was fiercely denying it as being a 'who' despite the clear shape - it had been covered in a thin white sheet.

He felt his stomach drop when he gazed over it, its face veiled in death.

What was that? Who was that? His spine tingled as he looked over it, and his throat and eyes burned briefly when he noticed the slight dampening of red right around where the eyes and mouth should have been…

He slammed his eyes shut. No. No. Don't _look_ at it. It was nothing; nothing more than his over-zealous imagination. He had _much_ more important things to focus on than the identity of the _object_ that was in his bed.

As he held his eyes squeezed shut, everyone that was in the space silently began to move away. Like ghosts themselves, they quietly stepped out of the room, pushing open the door, and brushing past - and through - Matthew like he really was a phantom.

They disappeared into the blackness of the hallway without a word.

Canada had tried to ignore all of this; he was too distressed at the figure on the bed to notice that he had been walked through like he really _was _the epitome of invisible.

Against his better judgment, his eyes opened again, Matthew started to walk into the room.

The door shut behind him.

He took a breath, only then really realising that everyone was gone - except the supposed 'body' - leaving him in the complete dark, the door closed.

He turned, moving to turn the handle, but it was solid in its place; un-turning and immoveable.

Canada muttered under his breath his un-luck and he tried to turn it again, jiggling the handle more fervently.

Matthew started to doubt himself as he attempted to open the door.

That body hadn't been...? No. No it hadn't. Maybe it wasn't a body at all... Maybe...

_Shifting_ came from the other side of the room, causing Matthew to freeze in place. Shivers raked up and down his spine as he held firm to the single spot, listening to hear if he had just imagined it…

Then, there was a slow, agonising sound of a sheet gently slipping off of a form; the very same sound of someone slowly raising up from bed, and stretching their legs over the edge to make their feet meet the floor. The rustling stopped, and Matthew felt like his breath had lodged in his throat.

He didn't dare to unclog his breath; his hands were frozen against the doorknob.

Footsteps. Directly behind him.

He pinched his eyes shut tight, willing the sound to not be real, to be fake. Demanding his mind to stop playing tricks on him; and demanding that when he opened his eyes again, that the world would right itself and everything would be back to _normal_.

The footsteps were _slow_ and shambling. They scraped against the carpet with slow, careful shifts. The feet must have been raking against the floor as the bod-

No! No! That body was still lying in the bed! Or... it wasn't a body at all! It was his imagination! He was imagining all of this!

His eyes flung open and he began to shake the doorknob, trying to jar it from its frozen state. "C-come on! Come on!"

The shifting grew louder and closer, and Matthew's breaths came back suddenly in heaved panic.

He was yanking on the door with such ferocity that he could have bruised his hands. His foot was pushed against the frame as he tried to _pry_ the door physically off its hinges; trying to use all his strength for all he was _worth_!

The sliding of feet on carpet stopped.

Right behind him.

He whined under his breath in shaky panic, making throaty childish sounds as he tried harder _and harder_ to shake open the damned door. The sick curiosity and want to turn his head and look into the face of _whatever it was_, was _immense_, but he fought it back. He could not look.

Looking confirmed.

Something touched his shoulder and _gripped_ it from behind. Cold, hard, clammy fingers coiled around his shoulder and-

He screamed.

France recoiled sharply when the panicked cries broke out from his son, and he dove back down when Matthew started to struggle violently against the sheets that were tucked around him.

France pressed his hands down, trying to grip the flailing arms before they hurt him, or worse, Canada himself.

Italy had burst into the room at the sound of it all, and Francis broke out, "I think 'e ad a nightmare! 'elp me!"

Feliciano wasted no time in getting to their side, and as France tried to pin down Matthew's legs as well, Italy was by Canada's head, reaching out with a hand and pressing it to Matthew's forehead.

"Ne! Ne! You're okay! It's okay."

Italy could feel _h__ea__t_ when he touched Matthew, but all Matthew could feel was icy coldness – _clammy_ skin that pressed against his brow and he struggled against the unknown holds that tried to press him to the bed.

He whined, panicking, trying to break out of it.

"- okay! You're okay! -"

Huh...? What?

"- ... okay! Ne! Wake up. You're just having -"

"- Wake up Mathieu!"

His eyes snapped open with an intake of breath and he instantly stopped struggling. He heaved breaths, sweat dripping off his brow and down the sides of his face as he looked up into the extremely concerned eyes of his father.

To his right, he saw Italy withdraw his hand, and the cold feeling against his forehead left.

He breathed, Francis still pressed down until he realised he met no resistance. Tentatively, the Frenchman pulled back from him, and slipped back into the floor proper, beside his son's bed.

"Petit...?"

Still heaving, Canada nodded, turning over in the bed and curling up.

"Nightmare," Matthew breathed. "J-just... a nightmare."

Carefully, France reached out and put a hand on Matthew's shoulder. "Mathieu-"

"S'okay... m'okay..."

Italy turned and disappeared from the room, saying something quickly about fetching cold water and a compress.

Matthew quaked from where he laid, the shadows of the dream still hung over his head in perfect clarity. Where normally they'd have already started to fade into obscurity, he could still imagine the shuffling steps sliding, inch by inch, against carpeted floor.

He got so wrapped in those memories, that when France shifted slightly on the carpeted floor of Alfred's bedroom, Canada jerked sharply, letting out an unwarranted sound even though he was just getting into grips with reality.

France knelt down and made sure his hand remained on his son, trying to be comforting. "Petit! Petit! It is alright. Whatever it was you dreamt, it is gone now, mon Ange. It is gone with the wind."

Canada breathed in and nodded his head, Italy returned into the room trying to balance a bowl of cool water on a tray, along with some cloths and a glass.

France only left Matthew's side to steady the tray and take it, and then he returned, ushering Canada to sit up and drink some water.

The water was ice going down his throat, and it was almost too hard to take in. He pushed the glass away after a moment and spoke with much better clarity. "I'm... I'm okay now... I'm okay..."

Now perched on the edge of the bed, Francis had taken up the cloth, wrung it out, and was carefully dabbing the sides of Matthew's face and neck. "Did you dream... of what you 'ad been talking to Alfred about?"

Only then did Matthew remember he had felt his consciousness fading when he was on the phone with his brother.

"No... no Papa... I've already forgotten," Canada lied. Besides. It was just a pointless dream. Nothing more. Stress was getting to him, so it was nothing more than a pointless... scary... _dream_.

"Did you really?"

"... Oui."

Italy stayed at the corner of the room during this, fiddling with his hands awkwardly as he had no idea what he could do any further for the poor Canadian man. So he decided to just stay where he was, watching father and son, and biting down on his bottom lip.

Canada turned his eyes onto the Italian.

"... Haha... Sorry a-about all this Italy," he managed. "I-I'm usually much... more lively than this. I promise, when this is all over... If I can, that is, I'll make you some pancakes, or pasta, eh?"

"That sounds really good!" Feliciano looked relieved, but still tense, and he came closer. "I bet your pancakes are really good, ve. Gilbert always talks about them, whenever he comes back from your place."

Matthew gave a soft laugh. "Of course he does..."

"Ne, I'll make you something extra-delicious now, okay? Something that's easy to eat, I promise," Italy said. "I bet, even if you don't know it yet, you are probably really hungry! So I'll make something."

"Okay."

Italy paused. "... Ne, and don't worry, Matthew! Doitsu is on the job! I bet that they already have talked to Mr. America and _everything_."

Matthew stopped talking for a moment as a feeling came over him. Slowly, he said in reply, "He hasn't... Alfred is almost there though..."

Silence fell and Francis removed the compress that was pressed to Canada's forehead, "Petit, 'ow do you know this?"

Matthew blinked. "I just... do." He smiled brightly. "I just _do_! It's not numb or blank or-! I just _know_ Alfred is about to be there! I just _know_!"

Canada only had a few moments of joy in the fact that he wasn't _completely_ numb in that area yet. Right up until… he realised the implications.

His mood plummeted almost as fast as it had risen. Yes, it was great that he could _feel_ Alfred was just about at his destination – but that was just it. _He was almost at his destination._

"... Oh no..." Canada gripped the sheets. "What do we _do_?" Matthew looked at his father desperately. "He's nearly _there_!"

. . .

Alfred was finally on his way. He had, finally, managed to separate himself from the ridiculous pile-up and was trundling down a side-road. Why he didn't think of it before was certainly something that he was keen to perpetually berate himself on, but he couldn't focus on that quite yet.

With single-minded determination, Alfred F. Jones, the Representative of America, sped his car down side-streets _straight_ to where he needed to be.

Sure, it wasn't exactly as fast as he'd have liked it to be - as there were other cars that had the same bright idea as him – but it was what he felt was several thousand times faster than before.

It wasn't before long, and save for the lessening snow, that America had a clear view of the buildings.

The offices in question looked like the normal parliamentary buildings, tall, impressive, somewhat over-the-top in Alfred's opinion. They were, unusually, fairly _new_ compared to the others. After all, the "Canadian Intranational Representative Liaison Offices" and all associated departments were rather 'new'; at least within the last century.

He had always sort of liked the Liaison offices, at least, when they first arose for Canada.

They had been helpful, useful, even. They had helped organise the contact between his brother and his government and it had been a _good thing_. But now he was getting doubtful.

He squeezed the steering wheel in anger as he turned down a street parallel to the buildings. They disappeared behind veils of tall trees covered in a white fathomless blanket of snow.

Even in his anger, America had half a mind to remember that storming up there _right away_ was a bit stupid. He'd hide the car off to the side, and walk up the building...

... _Then_ he was going to storm in and _kick ass_ if he needed to. So what? They were just pathetic _humans_. While yeah, he technically was one 'too', they were miles below him in strength and power, and they'd learn very quickly to move aside.

Oh they were going to learn that lesson _very_ well.

Alfred parked his car at the side of the road and clambered out, putting away his cell-phone in one pocket and patting it in place. He never received a return phone call from his brother; the silence just pushed America on even more.

Bundled quickly, and hood covering his face, Alfred made quick steps down the sidewalk and straight for the offices.

He didn't see head or tails of Germany, England or Prussia, and he laughed because they obviously were initially stupid like _him_ and decided to take the main roads. There was no way that they'd manage to get there before him if they had done that.

The way to the buildings was quick, and America's anger was mounting with every step. Although he had cooled off in the car, the closer he got to the buildings, the angrier the hate was that boiled deep in his chest.

How could they?

Ignoring Matthew. Telling Matthew not to phone their line. Denying his existence. Cutting the line. Causing him _pain_ and _suffering_. Making him _bleed_ without cause or reason! Making him suffer a _panic attack_ and making him think that he was _going to die_.

Alfred's teeth were bared and his eyebrows narrowed so low that his eyes were shadowed.

They were going to _pay_.

As he stepped, he walked past the small building that dealt with him on special occasions. They could go _fuck_ themselves now. He didn't give a rat's ass about them anymore. Assholes. All of them fucking assholes.

A bare few people were walking between buildings; all of them well-dressed and fit in ties or in business skirts. They could all _fuck_ themselves too. All of them.

However, they weren't the only people there. America didn't notice the other people intermingled with the businessmen; men in casual work-wear as they carried furniture out of the offices piece-by-piece and loaded it onto the trucks. They worked despite the weather, and they weaved around the people that Alfred only had eyes for.

So he never noticed them.

He just angrily walked past, also ignoring the confused stares at his presence, and he just moved on. So _what_ if they wondered who he was. He was practically looking _forward_ to security being called. If that happened, then he was going to have a _jolly good time_ beating the shit out of them too!

He moved around two men that were attempting to move a rather large desk and didn't so much as bat an eye at their presence. He weaved around them heatedly.

He only wondered.

He was nearly at the main building, some people were staring openly now, and he reached out with one gloved hand to the front door.

This was it. He was going to solve all of Matthew's prob-

A hand snapped down on his wrist sharply.

"Didn't see me there, did ya?" Came a low, self-appreciating snarl.

Alfred jerked his head to the right to see Gilbert standing there, having dislodged himself from behind a snow-covered potted pine bush. Snow clung to his hair in icy clumps, and his lips were tinged slightly blue from having stood there in the negative-fucking-cold weather for quite some time. Waiting for him.

America pulled his arm out of Prussia's grip. "How the fuck-!"

"You didn't think you could knock me out and then expect that I'd just _let_ you walk in these doors? Come on now." Prussia stepped forward, trying to put himself between Alfred and the doors. "I'm not an idiot. Come on now, Alfred. Why don't you turn the fuck around, and get back in your fucking car."

"Hell no."

"Bruder and your dear ol'_ Dad_ are almost here, you know."

"Don't give a fuck. Get out of the _way_," he pushed on Prussia's shoulder.

"Don't think so."

"_Move_."

"Nope."

Prussia wasn't going to wait for their banter to dissolve into physical violence. He wasn't going to wait for when Alfred shoved him away more forcibly and got inside. He wasn't even going to wait for the security to arrive.

He wasn't going to _wait_.

He let his arm coil back and punched America as hard as he could across the face, sending flecks of red across the snow and Alfred tumbling nearly head-over-heels backward.

"I said _no_," he scolded, shaking out his fist.

Alfred lay on his back, hand to his cheek and a hot bright-red stripe of blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.

"Listen the first time."

Security was _definitely_ going to be called now.

Gilbert dashed forward, tugged up Alfred's hood so it covered his hair, and started to try to _drag_ America away.

Alfred had been stunned, not lamed. He turned over and denied Prussia any further hold on him. With a lunge and a _snarl_ he tackled Prussia to the ground.

"_YOU FUCKING BASTARD!_"

Gilbert struggled, but he couldn't stop a good punch sent towards him, crashing into his shoulder with violent force.

"Gyaagh!" That had _not_ been a warning shot!

"_You... you..._" Alfred seethed. "You are trying to _help them! I know it!_"

"Gnngf... Whu-... No!" Prussia kicked out at Alfred. "I'm no-!"

America got his footing again and he stood up, dragging Prussia up along with him by his collar. Security guards along with the RCMP were already dashing towards them.

Knowing he had little time, Alfred hissed at the struggling Prussian, "I'll deal with _you_ later you fucking _traitor_!"

"I di-"

Gilbert was silenced when Alfred sent one of his very best straight across his jaw.

America let go.

Prussia lifelessly fell to his knees, and collapsed sideways.

Shouts and calls of surprise came from the audience, and the officers picked up their speed to get to him faster.

Alfred turned, ran to the door, wrenched it open, and dashed inside.

"Preußen!"

Germany and England had bore witness to the whole ordeal, having only arrived a few minutes shy of when Alfred had. They too had exploited the fact that America had been stuck in the snow.

Ludwig's pace hurried exponentially, and England turned to head off the security; cutting them off before they ran in after his son.

Germany was at his brother's side immediately, and for the _second time_ that day, he had to deal with his brother being unexpectedly unconscious. It worried him every time.

He turned him over, getting Gilbert's face out of the snow, and saw purpling vicious bruises already displaying on Prussia's face; straight across from his cheek down to his chin. Blood clotted under the flesh and Germany couldn't help but wince upon seeing it.

Assured that Prussia was not dead or worse, he knew he couldn't keep his attention on his brother. He hoisted the unconscious man up in his arms and with a glance to England – who had effectively stopped the security and RCMP - he turned towards the doors, and kicked them open.

Shrieks of surprise came from behind the front desk. Understandably. They also had to have dealt with, moments before, a very _very_ pissed off American piling through the door like a bull let loose.

Germany settled his brother down on a couch and turned to the woman that was standing closest to him. She, apparently, had been too stunned to try to seek refuge behind the desk as her co-workers had.

"Not a word to _anyone_." Ludwig instructed with his deepest and most authoritative tone, "_treat_ _him_. But do not tell _anyone_. _ANY _of you." He emphasised sharply, "Do you _understand!_"

They all either squeaked or nodded numbly.

"Tell me. Where did the man from before go?"

He was directed without argument and he nodded thanks before taking off, leaving his brother.

Outside, England had explained who he was and was fiercely trying to keep it all under wraps and a secret. He tried to couple it all with a threat that if any of it broke news coverage, then he was going to do _something _terrible to each and every one of them. He wasn't quite sure what that was going to be as of yet.

But it was going to be terrible. He was clear on emphasising that.

This was a representative issue and Arthur was keen to repeat that as much as possible. It was a representative issue and they only needed to _turn citizens away now_.

He was scared now; scared that if the news broke out, that a scandal would break within Canada's country. It would spread to tabloids and papers and news and it'd cause havoc and wreckage beyond _repair_.

So he worked hard in explaining to them. _This had to be kept quiet_.

During all this, Alfred was skittering around corners and swearing to himself when he heard the announcement for anyone still remain in the building to get inside rooms and lock all the doors.

Knowing that his job was going to get ten times harder, and now assured that they _must_ have some sort of secret to hide if they were locking everyone in, America just drove straight on; finding a stairwell so he could climb to the _very top_ and slam down on whoever was running the place.

Germany was rocketing up a flight of stairs, skipping steps as he crashed upwards, trying to beat Alfred's head start. England, now inside, was frantically trying to explain to the receptionists to stop all outgoing and incoming calls, only to realise in horror that the phones were suddenly starting to go off hook.

The news had somehow _spread_.

Despite his best efforts, the news was spreading like wildfire.

America burst out of the stairwell and dashed through the hall. He didn't notice the plethora of empty offices or the like; he was just heading for one that he knew well enough.

The office where he _knew_ Canada went to organise things with the Liaison Offices.

He slammed open the door, splintering wood where the lock had been in place. The door crashed to the floor, wood cracked beneath his feet.

Seriously? Wooden doors?

Germany appeared behind him, boots sliding on the linoleum as Alfred took harsh steps forward and _slammed_ his hands on the desk, denting it with each hand.

"I want to _talk_ to you."

Seriously, Germany came forward, but from over the scared-shitless man's shoulder he could see the damage had already been done.

En masse, people were gathering around the building as it was painfully obvious that _something_ was happening. Regaurdless of their efforts… it was too late…

… And Alfred was too focused on his intent to murder to even notice.

* * *

**Author's Note : **Many things had to be addressed in this chapter, so that's why there's not a lot of Alfred's shinanigans. Chapter 19 is going to be INTERESTING.

And yes, I made up the Intranational Liaison Offices. There IS more information pertaining to it, but that will be discovered as the story goes on. For now, you have been given what you require.

Oh Alfred... Why oh WHY.

Anyway! Thanks for the awesome reviews! Really!

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**Chapter Nineteen Preview : **It all comes down to one crashing point - A crowd's gathering. Already starting to get media attention, the situation at the Offices get devistating. Somebody has to do SOMETHING. But who. What? HOW! Just what will happen to Matthew!

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Thanks for Reading! **PLEASE READ AND REVIEW**! You've all already been so awesome and gave me basically 500 reviews! This astounds me! So happy!

So continue to review and tell me what you guys like and that you are reading, all so I know what I've done right, and so I can just do BETTER for you guys!


	19. And We all Fall Down

**Disclaimer of this Chapter : ** I think at this point me mentioning there is swearing is very redundant. I'm sorry, I can't change these Hetalia boys. They are gunna swear. Shame on them. I should wash their mouths out with soap.  
**Ownership :** Definitely do not own Hetalia. I'm also making NO PROFIT off of this. Awesome.  
**Important Note : **As this story gets more into the government, I must STRESS that everything I make up is just that... MADE UP. I am not expressing ANY opinion of the Canadian (or other) Government, and this is merely for plot-device awesomeness. Okay? As well as, ALL character actions and interactions are based off of CHARACTER TRAITS. I am not making fun of/slandering or putting down any nation in question. Thanks.

And… hahaha! Look! I'm here! What? Did I go somewhere? Did I… disappear? Goodness me! Has it… been that long? Gosh. You know, I'm realizing vacations tend to bring the worst gaps out of me. Believe me though… no vacations for some time yet. I have the writing oomph back! And I recently did up this chapter for you. Enjoy! Thanks for being patient.

OH I GOT THREE FANARTS. Two from my beta and one from another awesome person! Please go to my profile and check them out! It should be obvious which ones they are. Now go! Comment on them if you can! Give them praise! Go! Go!

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**Chapter 19 Summary : **They have to remember there is more at stake than just Alfred on a rampage. If they manage to stop him… what then? What of Matthew?

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**- Chapter 19 - And We all Fall Down -  
**

Snow was falling.

It fell in a light cascade all around him. Snow billowed through his hair and blew across him, leaving white flakes all over his hastily-put-on coat and frosted the legs of his jeans in a pale, wintery film. The snow even settled into Matthew's eyelashes as he dashed, clinging there, slowly melting into arrant droplets.

Canada's feet pounded into the snow, but he had no time to admire it. He had no time to stand there in the snow and just admire it like he had in that dream that already felt like forever ago.

As much as he would have wanted to usually, as much as he would have liked to stand in it, to stand and admire it... As much as he wanted to stand there and forget about all that was happening around him… It was reality. It was _real life_. What was happening was not something he could just ignore, even if he wanted to.

Before he had made this rash decision, Canada felt like he had been doing nothing but inaction. Not that he had been ignoring the situation, but it _felt_ like he was. He felt as if he had been just sitting there; just waiting while other people went to _his_ rescue. Canada couldn't stand for it any longer. He was going to _act_, damnit.

Yes, he knew it was stupid. Yes, he very well knew that he was somehow - probably most definitely - going to make himself worse; and even though he was _ages away_ he felt that he should still fight as hard as he could and at least _try_ to solve the issue. He had to try. He had to stop whatever possibility there was of a catastrophe from happening.

It almost made him gleeful at the very thought that he had such a strong - near maternal - urge to rush out and protect all that he represented. It meant that he still had some sort of connection to his country. It meant that he still _was_ his country. It meant that not _all was lost_.

And damnit; he was going to _fight _for that. He was going to fight for what was his and he was going to go out there and _help_.

He wasn't going to lamely sit idly by. He was going to _do something_.

So despite the heaving breaths, despite leaving his dear papa and Italy behind with Kumajirou without so much as a word or bidding goodbye, and despite knowing that by the end of it all, he'd _personally_ be worse-off; Matthew knew he was doing the right thing.

So Canada ran.

...

At the Liaison Offices, Alfred glared down at the man at the desk with such ferocity, that any observer would be _sure_ that he could kill with his eyes alone. All of America's anger had been diverted - funneled - to a single point, and the poor man before them was trembling under the pressure of being that one focus.

Face already whitened, hands wringing, the man at the desk stammered when America spoke viciously, demanding that they, 'talk', and he could do _nothing_ but looked mortified as he stared up at the livid nation.

Germany took a warning step towards them – a movement ignored by Alfred - and began to prepare himself for the absolute worst; he had already gone this far.

Through the momentary silence of the thick tension - Alfred was still glaring at the man, waiting for a response to his 'request' - Ludwig noticed something highly troubling about the man.

The man was pale, quaking, and he looked every inch that he was _completely terrified_ of Alfred. While he wasn't surprised by the man being mortified, it did bother him that he looked _that_ badly shaken up. Normally officials that dealt with countries often saw them at their worse, and they rarely were brought into a near-coma of _fea_r - as that man seemed dangerously close to being - when facing them. No matter _how_ intimidating the aforementioned nation was being.

That coupled with the man's clothes looking nothing even close to being 'official' or even part of the governmental system, as well as the untidy metal workman's lunchbox that was sitting unforgotten on the desk.

Germany's observation could only mean _one_ thing: the man had never been face-to-face with a nation in his life.

"Jones," Germany attempted, taking another step, reaching his arm out towards the livid American nation. "That's not a -"

Alfred was much, much too far away in his own world to hear the German; instead, he just advanced further upon the poor trembling man, who was just about to experience a dead-away faint if the situation got any worse.

"You," America snarled, "I want fucking _explanations_!"

His hands slammed down on the table and the man could only whimper pathetically at the display, his mind obviously running blank.

"_Answer me_!"

Feeling that America had enough time to do whatever it is that he wanted to, Germany took America's shoulder sharply. Ludwig didn't try to pull him back, he didn't try to inflict any pain, but his grip was tight enough to imply a heavy warning.

His carefulness was warranted; Alfred was akin to an un-detonated - and extremely volatile - grenade. Ludwig was wise to what happened to his brother, and knew it'd help nobody if it happened to himself.

"Jones," he started seriously, but carefully. "That is not a-"

Again, Alfred didn't so much as bat an eye at what Germany had to say. Instead, he continued his scathing words, "What is going _on_ here! Hmn? Tell me. Right _now_! What the _fuck_ do you think. you're._ doing._"

"Jones."

Much to Germany's surprise, the man spoke, "U-u..-... e...eating m-my l-unch...?"

Not amused, America lunged forward and grabbed the man's collar. The sharp gesture staggered Germany, who was easily tugged forward as if he wasn't there. Alfred's lip curled as he demanded a _real_ answer with his stare alone.

"I... U... uh..." The man appeared to be on the brink of unconsciousness now, "O...or-...organising...t...the workers...e... eh..."

"That's what I _thought_," Alfred said - he was getting tugged slightly back by Germany at this point, but his grip on the man's collar was still iron-cast. "What are you telling them to _do_!"

Every second that the man took in delaying for an answer was a second more that he had to stare into impossibly livid blue eyes. "T-..to… d…demol….de….de…" His mind couldn't take it. His body couldn't take it... "Dem…"

... He fainted.

In that instant, America's grip slackened as the man pathetically crumpled, letting him fall to the floor; and in the split-second following, Alfred's anger spiked impossibly higher, as if that man fainting had been a personal _insult _against him.

Germany acted within those very micro-seconds and grabbed Alfred when his defenses dropped.

It was a good thing too, because America had made the decision to _attack_ the man for the insult. One moment, Alfred thought he was about to deal out divine retribution against the man for all the injustices he had caused - lunging forward with a snarl - and the next, he was careening into the floor. Another second after that, Germany was very heavily pinning him to the ground, bending his arms behind his back, and kneeling against his legs.

"_Son of a bitch!_"

"_Stop!_" Germany barked. "I don't believe that is the man you are after!"

The aura coming off of America was deadly. "Don't you fucking interfere, Ludwig!"

"You shouldn't be acting this way! Get a hold of yourself Jones! Think about what you are doing!" He pressed him down harder, heavy warning in his grip.

America hissed under his breath, the pent-up anger still had nowhere to go, and it had bubbled still-further with no relief when he had talked to the accused man. "_Y'gunna let go now?" _his voice was very, very dangerous. "Or are y'gunna be a fucking _moron_ like your brother?"

Ludwig pressed down on him further, giving a warning tug to one of the American's arms. Prussia may not have always thought everything through, but during _all_ of what happened, Germany highly doubted he did _anything_ even _remotely_stupid.

His brother was _not_ in the wrong for any of this. He tried his hardest.

Germany leaned down threateningly. "Jones. I know you are not going to want to listen; and I _know_ you are going to retort, but I am going to speak to you regardless."

As expected, Alfred struggled, spitting in his fury. Germany tightened his hold further still and continued harshly, "I do not have _time_ for childish attitudes, and frankly, I am contemplating going the way of mein Bruder, if physical violence seems to be the only route to _stopping _your madness!"

Alfred managed to wrench one of his arms from Germany's grip and he growled, "You have _no_ idea what you're ge-"

"Getting into?" Germany slammed a free hand down on Alfred's to stop any attempt at further escape; and seeing as it was the injured one, it brought Alfred roughly to attention. "Yes. I _do_. I am _well aware_ of the consequences. Jones. Listen. Take a moment and _listen_. Right now the media is gathering. There are people _gathering_; in Williams' _capital_; and once news of what happened here spreads, there is going to be public _outrage_. They are going to think something bad happened and they -"

"Of course _something bad has been happening_!" America cut in. "I'm here to fucking solve it! They're probably here because they're overjoyed that finally somebody is doing something about it instead of sitting on their a-"

"_WILL YOU LISTEN?_" Germany's voice boomed through the room in a near-deafening echo. His tone _dared_ Alfred to speak one more time.

"Listen. For _one minute. LISTEN._ Then you can choose to do… whatever you want to do, but you will not _expect_ me to stand idly by. Now listen."

Alfred went silent.

With a sigh, Ludwig began again, trying hard to get his point across to Alfred where Prussia had failed before. It would be harder now, seeing as how Alfred was already in the buildings, and there was no knowing how much longer the man was going to let himself be pinned. "The media is going to create public outcry."

"Of _c-"_

Germany cut him off once more, restraining his own anger. "It's already happening. Jones, you have to stop _now_ before it gets worse. If you come here and _injure_ anyone else, then you are going to cause a bigger mess than you are trying to clean up!"

"Don-"

"_Don't _interrupt me _AGAIN_!"

Germany understood where America was coming from. He knew that he too would be angry and upset if his _own_ brother was suffering so needlessly. But he knew he wouldn't have the _blindness _that Alfred insisted to possess. Ludwig couldn't stand for that.

He knew that the only way to get to Alfred was to give him the naked and grizzly truth, as the last-ditch attempt he had to seep reality into the single-minded state of Alfred's brain. It was the last attempt before he was going to have to resort to physical violence to subdue the man.

"Alfred," he tried again, "if you do not stop now, you very well could be the cause of William's _death_."

An outraged splutter, "That wo-"

"By judgement of what has already occurred because of you; _you very well may have already been the cause of it_!"

Ludwig was surprised at the credible conviction in his own tone, and realised he very nearly believed it himself. He feared not the media explosion, not the uproar, but Canada's _death_. It must have been convincing enough, because Alfred had gone silent.

A few seconds passed, and America's voice was much weaker when he attempted to make voice again, "Wh...t... that's not... I... I didn't!"

Germany stood, roughly pulling Alfred up with him. It was a risk, but he needed to drive the point home, and he wasn't sorry for doing so.

_"Look_."

Ludwig turned America towards the window and pointed sharply.

A large crowd of people stood along a perimeter of RCMP officers that had been rallied by England. They stood there questioningly, curious, enthralled by _what_ was happening inside of those very offices. Most were civilian, and flashes of light went off periodically as portable cameras and cell phones took in the event as-they-happened.

England was outside, hastily talking to someone with his hood drawn up before he sharply gestured and made to dash towards the building.

America tried to fight against what he was seeing, "S-... so...? They're just..."

"Jones." Germany pressed. "This isn't good. Whatever it is you came here to do, you have to _stop now_. The situation is already irreversible. Look with your _eyes_, Alfred, what do you see?"

"I…"

"Don't tell me you can't see what I can see. Don't tell me you can't see the beginning of a news storm that has the potential to tear apart Williams' strength. That is, if it hasn't alrea-"

"_MATTIE HASN'T DIED_," Alfred cried, turning to Germany sharply. "_Matthew isn't dead_," he repeated, voice quiet. "Don't you even fucking _suggest_ it."

"So are you listening now?"

Through clenched teeth, Alfred said, "I _heard you_."

"Then you have to _stop_," Germany implored. "Jones. You have to _stop_. Because in the event you haven't already -" he ignored America's expression of horrified outrage, "- then you must stop before you _do_. Do you _understand_?"

Alfred's fist came down on the desk. It splintered with the single heavy blow, and sent shrapnel of wood and office supplies to the floor with a harsh _crash_.

The man had regained consciousness at some point and escaped long before America's assault.

Ludwig had half a mind to tell America to stop hitting things with his brutalised hand, but instead he grabbed the wrists of the angry and horrified nation and pinned them behind his back.

Alfred didn't struggle, he let himself be forced to sit down on the remains of the desk. Germany's words had hit home, and his mind was torn with extreme thoughts that kept him white-faced and silent.

Germany was apologetic, but not. He was only glad that Alfred was quelled. For now.

...

England stood just on the inside of the doorway of the main building where Alfred had come raging through like a bull. He breathed, head resting against his arm as he looked out the window forlornly. He probably couldn't risk another attempt to get out there. He knew that he couldn't risk speaking to the officers again.

It was a miracle that he had managed it a few times, even. He'd dash out there then dash back in before he was properly seen, but the effort was getting more and more futile. He was _sure_ that someone - or two or three or four - recognised who he was and now he couldn't appear again lest he added problems on top of what was already a boiling mess.

It had really gone to the dogs.

England had heard whispers and a rumour of not only America being at the Liaison Offices, but Germany too; that was very, very bad.

With a last look toward the crowd, he turned away from it and towards the woman that stood - no, sat - at the reception, looking flighty and scared as he approached her.

He already had a quick talk with her in his short excursions in the main entrance hall when he regrouped his efforts, but he now wanted to make pressing notes alongside what he had already bitingly told her.

"Make sure you don't forget what I told you," he said much more kindly than the last time he had spoken to her, which had comprised of a very sharp _'Don't phone, talk, look at or so much as _breathe_ to _anyone_!' b_efore he dashed outside again. "I want you to _understand this_. You are not to say anything about what happened. Do you understand?"

She nodded quickly. She had already been told this and had been making frantic warnings to any remaining staff members to do exactly as they were told. It was one thing to spread gossip, and completely another to go behind the back of the _United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland._

He grunted his approval, and then tried to put on a kind face. It was extremely hard given the circumstances, and his mind was far, far away from trying to be _sympathetic_. But the woman so far hadn't done anything _wrong_, and so she didn't deserve all his piercing attitude. _That _honour was reserved for someone else.

Reaching, England patted her hand as gently as he could. "Thanks, love," he attempted, then he turned away, already forgetting her.

Before he dashed up the stairs to see what had happened with Germany and America - he could only _hope and pray_ that the silence was a good thing - he had to deal with the unconscious ex-nation that was still lying where he had been placed.

Kneeling, Arthur winced at the sight of the ex-nation, and he gingerly placed a hand on the other's shoulder, giving him a careful nudge.

"Prussia," he attempted. "Gilbert."

Prussia didn't move.

England studied the heavy bruising that displayed viciously on the other's face, and said with light exasperation, "Come now, Gilbert. I don't want to bloody claim you're awesome. I haven't the _time_."

It was true he hadn't the time, and he was only exploiting the moment's respite to check up on the ex-nation.

One red eye cracked open at the sound of 'awesome'.

Arthur sighed and moved his hand away from his shoulder. He spoke carefully. "Gilbert... How are you feeling?" It was pointless to ask if he was alright. He clearly wasn't.

"F-ing... Amr'ka..." Prussia groaned and made no effort to get up. He seemed hazy, dazed and confused. It was a wonder he was even conscious, really.

"Gilbert..." Arthur said carefully. "Gilbert, you'll be quite alright soon enough. I can't deal with you right now, however. I have to go upstairs and deal with something else, you understand?"

Gilbert just barely nodded.

"Alright. Good. But this nice lady," he gestured back at the secretary, "Is going to help you find an icepack and something to help you feel better, alright? I want you to stay _lying down_."

The mention of him having to stay lying down sparked a response even in the half-conscious Prussia. His expression voiced stubborn complaint and he shifted slightly to get up.

"No no no." Arthur pressed him down carefully. "Rest up. You did _splendidly. _Your brother is dealing with Alfred _right now_. Alright? You managed to get Alfred into the hands of your brother and it was a ruddy miracle you did. So rest up, and you can..." he felt a bit stupid for saying this, "... go and boast your 'awesomeness' to Matthew when we get home."

A smirk quirked on Gilbert's lips. "No' 'alf bad... 'thur..."

"... Thank you..."

A loud _THUMP_ emanated from up the stairs and England stood up abruptly. Green eyes focusing hard, he glanced at the ceiling searchingly, as if he'd see proof of something happening through all the concrete, wood and plaster.

"You," he looked back to the woman. "Get an icepack. Get _multiple_ icepacks. Help him. Now." England said as he moved away from Prussia, clearly gesturing back to him. "I have things to deal with."

Arthur turned away from her and made towards the first flight of stairs he saw. "And don't you bloody well come anywhere close to us!"

Not waiting for a response, England climbed the steps.

It didn't take him long to find where the others had gone. He avoided rooms that looked locked and/or abandoned and streaked past rooms that had hushed whispers behind them. He went solidly straight for one room - of course, the most _important _one - where the door was ajar and light was spilling into the hallway.

He wasted no time in barging in.

Alfred was sitting on the edge of what remained of a table, and Germany was standing beside him. America appeared to be calm, but the grinding teeth and tight knuckles spoke that it was all that he had to keep himself that way. Ludwig's warning stance was enforcing good behaviour as the German stood over Alfred, arms crossed and intimidating.

England pushed the door open the rest of the way, already knowing what he wanted to do. He was past Germany within a mere instant, and then he was upon America.

_SLAP_. The sound ricocheted down the hall, echoing loudly to any that could hear it.

"_YOU BLOODY-FUCKING GOOD-FOR-NOTHING _MORON_!" _Arthur seethed. "What a fucking _idiot_. What... w... _What were you thinking!_ You naft, barmy, fucking _BERK_!"

Jerking upwards, America stood, hand to his cheek, clearly affronted. Anger was lacing back to his face and he took a threatening step forward; the table he had been sitting on finally fell over, and died.

Ludwig was quick to act and put a hand on Alfred's shoulder, another on England's, keeping them a good enough distance apart.

"What the fuck was _that for_!" Alfred accused.

England didn't notice the movement, the grip, or America's words - he just continued, "I can't _believe_ you! Now look at what we have to _deal with_! The media is eating this up! They are jumping on this like a pack of hyenas! THIS IS. ALL. YOUR. FAULT._"_

"My fa-"

England cut him off in solid rage. He was quaking with it now, and only Germany kept him from giving the idiotic American face another all-too-well-deserved slap across _the other_ cheek.

"Oh _no_, we already had it _hard enough before_," He growled. "What with Matthew getting _increasingly ill_ and all! Remember? The internal problems? _THE BLEEDING!_ But _no_. You had to run off and do something _so_ sodding moronic that I am _stunned_. Really Alfred. I am _fucking stunned_. I'd say that words have left me but that is _obviously a lie_."

Clearly it was, for Arthur wasn't done, or anywhere near it, "If Matthew didn't _love you so damn much_ - you fucking git - then I would be making _sure_ that you had _nothing more to do with him_. NOTHING. Do you _hear me_? I don't fucking _care_ anymore if you are his brother, that you were 'trying to help'. This is absolutely and so _fantastically_ BEYONDanything remotely _resembling_ 'help' that... that..." He was stumbling over his words in his white-hot rage, "god _HELP YOU_."

America's own anger had been dwarfed, shadowed by the immensity of his father's, and he stammered, "Wh... I..."

"_NOT ANOTHER WORD OUT OF YOUR SODDING MOUTH!_"

Alfred's mouth... shut tightly, the corners of his lips twitching downwards.

Arthur turned away from Alfred, unable to look at him and ran a hand through his hair. "This has all gone so wrong. _So bloody wrong_. The media is going crazy. They're having a field-day. If anyone _other_ than Alfred did this it'd have been on _purpose_. Thank god I can account on him being a _MORON_ so I know that it _wasn't_."

America flinched deeply at those words.

Finally Arthur let loose a great breath, and turned to Ludwig. "I… apologise for that, Germany."

"It is… alright."

"What are we going to _do_?" England asked, still angry, but holding firm in light of the situation. "The media going nuts out there, and I can't get back down there because I'm sure they've _seen me_. That's not a good thing! It's bad enough that they know that Alfred is here."

Without warning, he turned to Alfred sharply again, jamming an accusatory finger in his chest. "I hope you're _happy_. I hope this is what you've _intended to happen_. I hope that you wanted this to happen because _everything has gone to the dogs_."

Before Alfred could even respond, Arthur's back was facing him again as the British man began to pace the room in fury.

White-faced, America angrily kicked a chair against the wall, and neither Germany nor England so much as flinched.

"_FUCK_!"

It took all England had to not throw Alfred out.

...

"- _still silence in the buildings. No word of what is occurring inside as there is a large security detail around the premises. But this reporter herself has seen glimpses through the window and it looked like a heated argument is taking place within. Who knows what this will mean for the future of the Canadian economy w-_ "

The radio station crackled and screeched as a dial was turned, changing it over to a different station.

"_ - nestly I don't think that's the case. If America was out to set war with Canada, it'd have been much more plain and clear._"

The hand hovering over the dial stopped, and its owner listened.

"_But I do believe that the German government has been having issues with the Canadian government, and because of the World Wars, it would obviously have problems with approaching the Parliament with any pr-"_

The annoyed owner of the hand flicked the radio off.

England sighed heavily, glaring between the slits of the blinds out the black window and down towards the media-machine below. He hated all of them right then. He hated all of them as much as any parent hated every bee that buzzed threateningly around their child. He glowered down at all of them and their flashing cameras. They had no right... no _right_.

Irritated, Arthur stood, walking away from the window.

They were no closer to a solution, and every moment they spent away from solving their problem was a moment spent by the media making the theories and lies worse. The news was already all over it, and it had been mere hours since it had happened.

Even in the dead of night, when everyone should have been _asleep,_ gears were turning and people were talking.

If he so much as found _one_ English tabloid with this in it he was going to-

Arthur's mind slipped away from his angered thoughts when Germany re-entered the room.

Ludwig looked serious, but slightly paler than before. Between the heavy discussions of their next moves, Germany had left periodically to check on the state of his poor brother. Alfred had dealt some kind of blow because the Prussian man was showing no signs of coming back to the world of the living; though Germany was able to assure that Gilbert hadn't been more than knocked unconscious… so far.

"... How is he doing?" England asked tentatively, looking at Germany in earnest, but unable to fork up more concern than he already had spent on his own son. "Gilbert. How is he doing?"

Ludwig grunted. "Fine. He... He certainly will have to heal for a time after this. But he is mein Bruder, and has a harder head than most."

England gave Alfred a dirty look, but America was turned away, standing at a window, arms crossed and staring at the crowd below. He had been like that for the better part of an hour. America just stood there, unmoving. Arthur surmised that it was only because it was taking all that Alfred could do to not run and continue as he did before Germany had come in to stop him.

"Mein Bruder..." Germany said after a moment, sitting in a chair heavily... "Is not the issue. Even if I believe he's going to need proper medical attention for his jaw and shoulder..."

It was true, Arthur guiltily admitted. Gilbert was _not_ the issue. The issue right now was trying to get _out_ of their current situation without it getting worse. People were already worrying about World War III in the hands of Germany and America, and he wasn't about to perpetuate any of those rumours! Hurt Gilbert or not, Prussia had to _wait_.

"Well, that's plain and clear, though... I feel sorry for Gilbert," he attempted.

"Mn." Germany hummed distractedly.

While Ludwig might have been worried for his brother - though not _too_ worried, the man who raised him was made of very tough stuff - Germany's mind was mostly elsewhere. He wasn't so much anxious for his brother's health as he was wondering if and _when_ he should pass on a piece of dire news he had just received…

…From Italy.

Germany ran his gloved hand through his hair and glanced toward England, then to America.

He knew that Alfred was a time-bomb waiting to go off, and he knew that at any moment, America could explode into a ball of fury and divine justice.

Ludwig just wasn't sure of _when_ America would go off, but he had suspicions what he had to say might be the cause of it.

Clearing his throat, knowing that England was watching him warily now, Ludwig spoke, "We...

we have a problem."

Arthur scoffed. "Of course we do. We have a huge problem. A huge problem that could have been _avoided_ if _someone_ hadn't been such an _idiot_."

Ludwig ignored him, then debated once more. If he hid the information, then the outcome of him telling them later could be _worse._ If he told them _now_, then America might very well go on another rampage. Italy had told him the news on the verge of _tears_ and Germany was sure that both Francis and Feliciano had waited before telling him the news. They had exhausted every means they had before they had no choice but to tell him.

Knowing that he had little option himself, he knew that something had to be said.

It had to be said.

"We have a bigger problem, and it gives us a tighter time-limit concerning us getting out of this predicament."

Arthur was looking at Ludwig imploringly, waiting for him to continue, poised and ready for any blow that Germany was going to deal. Ludwig regretted what he had to say, knowing that Arthur was preparing himself for anything _but_ what he had to say. This wasn't going to be news of a diplomat trying to come to 'diffuse' the situation, or of another country voicing its say in the dealings. No. It was _nothing_ like that.

"... Williams is..." He let loose a breath, "... gone."

Alfred jerked around so suddenly it was a wonder that England didn't suffer from a heart-attack. White-faced, America powered to Germany and he looked every inch like he was physically _forcing_ himself not to grab the German man.

America spoke, his voice tight and strained. "What do you _mean_ g-gone!" Horror laced his tone, and the anger that they had both assumed to be there was revealed to be sheer and utter pain and panic.

Anger and fury had left him long ago.

Alfred swallowed. "W-what do you _mean_?" He spoke quickly. So quickly that Germany had no room to answer, and so quickly that it was plain that America had been _waiting_ for these words to be spoken to him. Standing and waiting by the window for the news that his brother was dead, that he had killed him, that Matthew had _died_.

"O-... Oh god!" America looked like he wanted to throw up_. _Germany _still_ hadn't been given the chance to speak. "Y-you... you mean he's... he...I really... Oh god I really-"

Germany called to cut across Alfred's panicked ramblings, through his frantic thoughts, and cut across his anguished words. "_He's not dead_!"

America's voice died in his throat and turning to Germany, he voicelessly mouthed, still horrified. "W-...?"

"He's not dead!' Ludwig confirmed, lowering his hand. "He hasn't died. Williams is not dead."

"T-then what..."

"He's gone missing."

England stood sharply. "What?"

"He... He's gone missing. Hours ago."

"Missing!" Arthur exclaimed, getting up from his chair. "What the bloody hell do you mean, _missing? _How could he have gone _missing_? Are you telling me that he just got up and walked… off…"

Germany only stared back at him, never refuting a word.

"Oh bloody _hell_ no! This is _just_ what we needed!"

Germany shook his head regretfully. "It's confirmed. Bonnefoy has spent the better part of the past two hours looking for Williams outside. He has _confirmation_ that he is gone. And we both agree that he is headed here."

"W-wh... Why is Mattie-"

"Isn't it _obvious_?" Arthur snapped. "YOUR stupidity! YOUR idiocy! It was _you_ that drove him to come here you imbecile!"

Germany held out a hand before any more arguments could breach. "STOP. Now. Stop."

"But-"

"NEIN. Listen. This is dire, I understand. Right now we _cannot do anything_ about Williams coming here. Understand? We cannot do anything in our present situation. We have to put that aside for now a-"

"Put that _aside_! Put that_ aside!_ How can I ruddy-well put that aside! He's my so-"

"KIRKLAND," Germany boomed.

England faltered and slumped down into his chair, all power and anger wilting from him. He looked weak and useless, and his face and body just spoke of how _tired_ he was. "I'm sorry..."

"No," Ludwig said carefully, careful to how he worded his next sentence, "No. Don't be sorry. Right now, we have to focus on getting out of our current situation. Then we can join and help Williams."

"Yes... But..." Arthur's voice was weak and strained. "But... his health... this... he's out there... and..."

Silence fell around them like a downpour. Nothing much could be said as they all drank it in. Germany frowned and rubbed his hand through his hair once more, and America looked as if his mind had been wiped blank.

England sighed, burying his face in his hands once more. Nothing was _ever_ easy, was it?

...

Matthew had no real idea how he got where he was. He had no idea how he managed to get himself a temporary car, how he managed to get himself across the border, and how he managed to avoid the horrible snow, traffic jams and other things that would have gotten in his way.

He had no idea.

He was quickly approaching, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel of the car, and he focused on the black roads ahead. He had to get to the parliament buildings... He had to get to the parliament buildings!

For the past while in his long journey of trying to get to the Liaison Offices, Matthew had started to feel pangs deep in his chest. Like twisting knots of anxiety, they stabbed periodically as something developed at the scene. He could already tell that there was so much focus being placed on the offices.

He knew, without looking at the news, that people were gathering, speaking, observing; people were _questioning_ and starting to come up with their own conclusions, their own theories. He could feel pangs when a wave of worry spread through the media-machine, and even though his entire country was phased into the blackness of the early a.m., the night-owls kept the cogs of that machine turning.

He shouldn't have been _happy_ about it, but he was. Honestly, he was. He couldn't have been happier that he was understanding what was happening, kilometres away, just by _being a country_.

Russia's earlier accusations came swimming back to his mind; those accusations that he was 'practically no longer a country'. Ridiculous accusations. He _was_ a country; Canada told himself that furiously, he had been so for hundreds of years.

And he could _feel_ the turmoil boiling in his capital.

He was happy because, if he could, he would've rubbed it into the Russian's face. Proving to him that he still _was_ a nation, and he _wasn't_ pathetic because he was _doing_ something about it.

Turning down a side-road - the wheels of the car screeching against the slick pavement of the neighbourhood he decided to short-cut through - Matthew's hand hovered over the radio.

He curled his hand back after a second of idle hovering.

No... He didn't want to listen to that yet.

He also hadn't wanted to hear any of his family. It wasn't a move of stupidity, but he felt it was one towards making sure he wasn't _distracted_. So he took no means of communication with them. He felt extremely sorry for his dear papa, and for Italy, who had been watching him so diligently.

But he had to leave. Being holed up at home, angsting and woeful was _not_ who he was. Maybe people assumed he'd sit aback and watch with doey eyes as terrible things happened, but people _forgot_ that he could be as stubborn and as hard-headed as any other member of his family.

With England as his father and America as his brother, there was _no way_ that he wasn't going to get _some_ stubbornness rubbing off on him!

No. He wasn't going to sit back. It was his country. _He_ was going to do something about it.

After a second of stubborn thought, Matthew wilted slightly, turning another corner. He mumbled to himself as he did so, "... Well... this was probably a _little_ stupid."

"... It was really stupid."

Matthew nearly _died_ from shock, and he almost sent the car careening into a very nice, and very innocent house. Veering the car sharply to the left, Canada forced the car to a sharp halt, the tires squealing heavily.

After a second of dizzily pushing the pounding of his ears away, he stared into his backseat. "W-who!"

"... That's what I say."

A fluffy, white, and very cuddly - albeit blank - face appeared. Kumajirou.

"K... K... Kumamaru?" Matthew cried with shock. "What are you doing here? How did you get in the car? _How are you here_? What are you doing here! What? How? W-?" He lost words and just stared at his bear.

"Well, you're being kinda stupid. So it was easy to get here," Kumajirou neatly explained, and deciding since Canada now knew he was in the car, and he didn't have to hide anymore, he lumbered into the front seat.

Matthew still stared.

Kumajirou stared up at his master for a moment, tilting his head as he regarded him. "Hmn..." He hummed, tilting it the other way, as if he were examining which brand of peanut butter he wanted. "... Idiot."

Canada was batted swiftly.

"O-ow! Hey!" Matthew put a hand to his head.

"You're being stupid. But we can't help it now. It'd be more stupid to go back," Kumajirou said sagely, turning to reach for the buckle - all the while Canada still _stared_ at him - "So... we can go."

"... What."

"... We need to go." Kumajirou gestured as if ushering a taxi-driver to drive ahead. "Come on. I think it'd be more stupid if you went back. You're really sick."

"U-uh..."

"... You'd probably pass out half way home anyway."

"... Er..."

"Because you're stupid."

"Okay! Okay!" Canada pressed through clenched teeth. "I _get_ it already."

Matthew dropped the issue of _how_ he didn't realise Kumajirou had followed him all that way and started the car up again, setting it trundling down the road once more.

Kumajirou spoke again, "When this is all over. I want maple syrup, ketchup and fish."

"... Okay Kumachichi."

Canada sighed, resisting the urge to put his head on the steering wheel in exasperation. But after a moment or two... he smiled. Reaching carefully with his right hand - as so he didn't run into the side of the road - he gently patted his pet bear on the head.

"Thank you, Kuma."

Kumajirou's response was simple. "Of course."

...

The four nations at the Liaison Offices were in a different room. The media had found out where they were 'hiding' and they saw it fit to flee to another room. This time, blinds were drawn and sparing lights were used, as to not attract any keen-eyed reporter.

They were like bloody _vultures_.

Germany was pacing the room, fingers on his chin; Prussia was lying on a convenient couch in the corner, bemused but half-awake, and America was sitting in a chair, having been nearly completely silence since his scare before. His pallor hadn't changed since.

England, of course, was sitting atop of a stool, legs crossed and he was completely focused.

They had all been working on a plan. Well, they weren't 'all' working on it as America appeared to have nothing to add, choosing to remain completely silent through Germany and England's discussion. That was all fine and dandy with Arthur, thank-you-very-much, who thought that any more of America's 'brilliant ideas' would surely be the final nail in Matthew's coffin.

Of course, while they were getting very close to having a plan, there was no way to blow the whole ordeal off - to act like nothing happened - that would be _impossible_. However, they believed that they _could_ disguise the situation as something else, and something far more innocent. Anything would be better than the constantly degrading theories the presses and people were coming up with.

So of course, the plan lacked anything to do with violence against the Parliament staff or anyone _related_. See how bloody-well it had turned out before; so absolutely, fantastically, wonderfully, and _amazingly wrong_.

"... Alright, so that takes care of that... but what about the excuse for what happened to _Gilbert_?" England said, gesturing to the semiconscious man on the couch. "How can we very well make a physical assault as _violent_ as that... _innocent_?"

"It..." Ludwig sighed. "It could have been 'staged' perhaps. And if Bruder feels up to walking by the time we re-enact it, I am confident that he can act halfway decently that he is alright."

The angry bruises on the Prussian's face spoke heavily otherwise. "I don't think that's going to work," Arthur said flatly. "It's too obvious."

"Then we will have to get him to walk, but we will be quick about it. The media isn't focusing too much on Gilbert anyway. He hasn't been mentioned in the news storm."

Arthur nodded, jotting a few things down on the clipboard again, trying to make sure he had coverage for any and all possible things that could go wrong...

He sighed, placing the pen down and called across the room. "Alfred, _do_ you have anything to add?" He didn't want any suggestions, but he was sure that America would have _complained_ about their plan long before then. "Before we solidify this into stone?"

A long second, then Alfred jerkily shook his head in the negative.

"… Have you listened to a word we've said?"

Alfred nodded sparingly.

"… Right then. So you are _perfectly okay_ with us telling everyone that you were running an unannounced drill of 'safety' for the sake of your 'dear brother'?"

A nod.

"… And you're perfectly fine with us completely blaming you for the lack of planning and that we had come on the assumption everyone knew?"

A nod.

"… And you're aware that despite this not going to be as bad as if your government knew the _real_ truth, that you will still be caught in a firestorm so fierce that it'll be a wonder you'll be to stand?"

Another nod.

"… Are you _sure_ you're even listening to what I'm saying?"

Finally, Alfred spoke. "Yes." It was a bare, almost hollow-sounding noise, but it was an affirmative. He was listening.

"Then you'll know that there is no way they are going to believe this for long, and you're going to have to _convincingly _ pretend that you were just 'joking' to everyone and proclaim that you were just trying to 'help', right? You're going to have to do this so we can get out of here, and convince them well enough that they are going to leave it alone for at _least_ a few hours?"

"Yes."

"… Good god, Ludwig," England said, turning to Germany. "I really doubt this is going to work. Alfred is with the birds right now. This. Isn't. Going. To. Work! This plan is _sketchy_ at best, and really, who the fuck is going to believe this?"

"Enough people as so we can leave here as soon as possible and intercept Williams. This never was a matter of squashing all rumours, but the opposing reality we are supplying will diffuse any extreme negatives. Hopefully. That is the plan."

"So… regardless of what we do, it's still royally fucked here, and we can be glad if it's only _mostly _fucked, not _entirely_ fucked."

"… Yes."

England threw his hands in the air. "Oh! Well! Why didn't you say that before? Sounds bloody_ dandy_! Let's all get on that right now! Nice to know that we're _screwed_ no matter_ what_we do! It's a comforting thought, really."

Germany sighed heavily. "Arthur."

The British sarcasm fell off of England in waves and he slumped back again. "I know… I know… It's the best we got. We have no choice other than to walk out there for all to see. Being silent would be worse. I _know_."

England glanced at Alfred who had gone back to his completely-quiet state.

"It's just… I really doubt this is much better than the alternative anyhow. Whether we have stopped Alfred from beating the living shit out of someone or _not_ this situation is as bad as it can get."

"I know."

Arthur nodded, putting down the clipboard.

"Let's give it our best shot, then."

* * *

**Author's Note : **I don't have an excuse for taking so long, but I do have a reason. I think when I go on vacations I tend to have a sort of weird mental break. I had a bit of a time getting back into the writing groove. As you can see, a few days before on APRIL FIRST I uploaded TWO fanfictions. One of which may not have been particularly honest… Anyway! I have managed to get back into the proper writing form. I sort of refused to write for you and give you something POOR if I felt I wasn't up to writing. That is totally unfair to all of you, as I want to give you the best.

I SHALL KEEP WRITING FOR YOU WITH LOYALTY.

Thank my beta for reading this over in good time so I could get it to you today! And also thank her for drawing two fanarts. Highly generous and awesome of her!

Also thank sesshomaru1257957 for giving me fanart as well. As I said up above, check out my profile for the links and be sure to comment! Please!

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**Chapter 20 Preview : **The trouble wasn't stopping Alfred… it is getting out of the situation at hand. Made worse by their own presences, how the hell will they get out of it...? WILL they get out of it before Matthew arrives and comes to a sickening conclusion about his Liaison offices.

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Thanks for Reading! **PLEASE READ AND REVIEW**! You've all already been so awesome and gave me basically 500 reviews! This astounds me! So happy!

So continue to review and tell me what you guys like and that you are reading, all so I know what I've done right, and so I can just do BETTER for you guys!


	20. Abandoned

**Disclaimer of this Chapter : **As always. Probably swearing, eh? Even though I know you guys know, I just enjoy writing these disclaimers, really.  
**Ownership :** Definitely do not own Hetalia. I'm also making NO PROFIT off of this. Awesome.  
**Important Note : **As this story gets more into the government, I must STRESS that everything I make up is just that... MADE UP. I am not expressing ANY opinion of the Canadian (or other) Government, and this is merely for plot-device awesomeness. Okay? As well as, ALL character actions and interactions are based off of CHARACTER TRAITS. I am not making fun of/slandering or putting down any nation in question. Thanks.

Oh my GOODNESS. What is this? A chapter? A week after? A miracle, I know. Actually, I intended this to be up on MONDAY, but since the website seemed to be having issues, I decided against actually posting it till I was sure that whatever issues those were went away. And they have! And I am a very happy Aru. Yes. Very happy.

I also got another fanart! Please go to my profile to check out the awesomeness.

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**Chapter 20 Summary : **Canada is almost there, America is faking something that is too hard to fake and something is happening that could spell life or death if they don't address it soon.

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**- Chapter 20 - Abandoned -**

Everything had such a huge potential to go wrong. Everything had already gone to hell in a hand basket, and England just wasn't sure if they could handle any more mistakes. He never showed it at the time, but when Germany had said Matthew had 'gone' and Alfred started to freak out over it meaning his brother's death... Arthur was sure his heart had stopped a little. He was afraid that if they made any more mistakes, then it would no longer be a misunderstanding when they were told that Canada had 'gone'.

He breathed out. It was frustrating, but they had to wait. As much as he wanted to act right away, they had to wait. It was foolish to attempt to leave in the middle of the night, and so they had decided they had better rest, make plans, then leave in the morning.

He had insisted they try at night, but Germany pointed out that it'd look highly suspicious if they tried to slink out in the dark. They already had enough suspicions around them, and they couldn't afford anymore.

Arthur glanced about the darkened room, shifting underneath the makeshift covers of his improvised mattress. Gilbert was still sprawled on the couch, doing much better, and now was just asleep rather than semiconscious; Germany was leaning against the wall, somehow able to just sleep there without any means of comfort, and America was curled up on the floor in a rumple of whatever sheets and blankets they could scrounge.

America wasn't asleep though, England was wise to that. He had lived with his son long enough; and though they didn't live together anymore, he was experienced with how America sounded when he slept.

So England was sure that Alfred was wide awake; just as he was.

Arthur couldn't blame Germany for wanting to sleep. He had a very long day and- What _was_ he thinking? England chastised himself. Of course Ludwig needed to sleep, he had a tough day! And so had _he_! _He_ deserved sleep as much - if not more - than Germany did. Ah… but alas, Arthur found he just couldn't bring himself to fall into a slumber.

There was just too much going on; too many worries to process.

In the silence of the room, Alfred shifted in his sheets, turning over in a light rustle, facing the curtain-drawn window.

England sighed again and slowly pushed himself up. He felt stiff and tired; exhausted. He could do with a good bit of sleep, but he just couldn't obtain it. Quietly and carefully, he stepped from his blankets and strode across the room.

Stopping a few feet from Alfred, who - he could see with a mere glance - still had his glasses on and his eyes were still open, England leaned slightly to get a better look at him. America didn't look at Arthur, but made no attempts to pretend he had been anything close to asleep.

Arthur glanced to him, and then leaned against the windowsill, taking a glimpse down at the quietness below.

People had temporarily given up - for the most part. He had noticed this when they had turned off all the lights, and he remembered - with mild amusement - at the befuddled news reporters saying that it looked like people were going to _bed_ in the buildings.

At least it was a moment of silence; a moment of much-needed rest. Sure, there were still people, and the media-machine was still ever-present, but it was a sort of quiet that he could revel in.

He turned to Alfred, and knelt down.

He reached out carefully and put his hand on America's shoulder, bringing America's attention to him. Alfred's eyes were still painfully somewhere else, even when he glanced at England in mild acknowledgement.

"Come on," Arthur said quietly. "We both can't sleep. That much is obvious. Let's walk about the buildings, mn? Clear our heads? Perhaps see if we can make ourselves a cup of tea."

Arthur still hadn't forgiven Alfred - by absolutely no means had he forgotten the atrocity that America had unwittingly thrown at his brother - but his lack of forgiveness didn't breach into any realm of cruelty, or refusal to see that America was in pain. He knew that Alfred was frightened, just as he was. He wasn't cruel enough to ignore it.

"Come now," he encouraged.

Slowly, America did sit up. And slower still, he started to slip out of his own nest of sheets and blankets before standing.

"Right. Come on."

England gestured to the door, signalled to be quiet, pressing his finger to his own lips. Not that America needed any such reminder; he had been all but mute since his previous fright.

The door shut quietly behind them with a click, and satisfied that he didn't stir either Gilbert or Ludwig, Arthur walked a few paces with Alfred before attempting to steal a look up at him.

Then England spoke, "... Are you ready for tomorrow, then?"

"Mn."

It wasn't the most eloquent answer, and he hated to admit that he wished America was more verbal about it. He expected there to be more gusto in his voice.

"Do you know what you're going to do? Know what you're going to say? You do know that this is all resting on _you_, right? We're relying on _you_ getting out of this ruddy mess that y-..." he trailed. "I mean," he changed tactic, "... You need to be ready if we can get out of this right."

America slowed to a stop, hands in his pockets. He was staring out a window to his side, standing in the middle of the hall.

England paused, stopping himself and turning his head back to look at his son. "... Alfred?"

A long silence played between them. It was hard to see in the dark, but the hallway was lined with windows and a deep blue light splayed upon them both. Alfred's face was mostly shaded in the dark, and his glasses flickered with reflected light when he shifted.

"... I really fucked up, didn't I?"

Arthur was so taken aback by his sudden speech that he almost didn't register what he had said. Alfred had been playing near-mute so well, that he hadn't anticipated the man to say anything at all to him. He only expected grunts and monosyllabics.

"Well..." England was broken from his surprise. "Yes. You did. I can't deny that, and I won't."

America didn't flinch; he still stared out that window, looking down at the darkened grounds below.

Arthur continued. "You are the reason this has happened, Alfred. Don't forget that. It was _you_ that brought this down upon us - and Matthew - and I hope you _realise_ that a-"

"Shut up," came from Alfred, quietly. He didn't say it bitingly, or sourly, or in threat. It was as dull and muted as the light around them. America was _still_ not looking at him.

"I beg your pardon?" Arthur asked, incredulous. "Shut up? I daresay I _won't_, Alfred. I won't. You deserve to hear this. You _need_ to hear this. You've caused so much trouble tha-"

America cut across him. "... I've heard it enough in my own head, thanks." He finally turned to look at Arthur. "You don't need to keep on saying it. I already know."

Arthur was taken aback, but not hindered. "I'm sorry if you feel that way, but you _need_ to hear it, Alfred. You did something so profoundly stupid that at first I really couldn't believe it. I didn't know what _possessed you_. I tried to understand, Alfred, I really did. I tried to get into your head and _tried_ to understand why you did it. But I can't. You left your brother; you left him, Alfred, and you came here. There were so many others things you could've done instead."

"I wasn't going to watch Matthew _suffer_," America said tightly, face still hard to see. "I just couldn't watch him suffer anymore. You saw him. He thought he was going to _die_ before, England. He thought he was going to _die_. A-and then he just acted so weirdly blank and... I -"

"- acted like an idiot."

"I said shut up! You don't need to tell me that! I already _know_ that!"

"I don't think you've been told it _enough_," England said tersely, hissing it as so he didn't raise his voice. They were still too close to the room where Germany and his brother were sleeping. "Alfred, I frankly think you'll _never hear it enough_."

"I don't want to hear it."

"You wouldn't have _started_ this conversation if you _hadn't_. You know full-well about my opinion of you right now. However, I was merely wishing to walk with you so we can clear our heads. _You _started a conversation that I was by no means going to start myself," England pointed out sharply. "So don't whine when you get exactly what you asked for."

Alfred turned away again, walking to the window and leaning against the sill.

Arthur was annoyed, but he was far too exhausted to express any more anger at that very moment. By all means, he felt as if he should go on another tirade against the American, but it must have been his tiredness that stopped him -

- That or the expression on Alfred's face, from what little he could see in the pale moonlight.

America was quiet for a few seconds, and then he spoke. It was almost cheerful - nearly painfully so - and he spoke with a light faltering conviction, "So! I... I'll just... Tomorrow I'm gunna just gunna go out there and tell them that I was... just testing Mattie. T... that I was just seeing how good my 'bro's' defences were and I was just being a hero. Hahaha."

It was slightly disconcerting to hear, but England nodded nevertheless.

"Yep. I can do that! I can totally pretend that... that's what I was doing. I... I can try to get their attention away so you can g-get out of here! I'll say I got people that looked like you guys to come 'cause you two were being stick-in-the-muds or something..." His laugh flickered painfully. "Then you can slip out, under cover... and you can get to Mattie!"

"Well... That is the plan. It's not going to work for long, you realise. People aren't that stupid."

"Y-yeah... but... I'm the hero! So... I'll... I'll do it. I'll get them distracted then... then we can get Mattie to safety and... yeah."

England hoped beyond hope that Alfred's conviction would be more believable when it came time to convince the people. Arthur could only _hope_ that if he was so painfully fake about his exuberance, the people would take it as disappointment that his 'plan' had 'failed'.

Alfred was back to the window, focusing on it a little too hard, and his expression tight.

Arthur sighed then stepped up to him. He didn't forgive him for his actions... but...

He put a hand on America's shoulder. "... It'll be alright, Alfred. As much as what has happened, and I'll admit this... Matthew will be alright. He's made of much tougher stuff than most people give him credit for."

"Yeah... but..."

"Don't have such little faith. Think. Matthew was strong enough to try to get himself here. I doubt he'll fail in getting here and that's why we must work hard, alright? He's a strong person; something like this isn't going to kill him." England tried to assure him of this, but he was doubtful himself.

"I'm scared."

Arthur looked at Alfred quietly for a moment, and then put his hand to rest on the other's head. "... I know, Alfred. I am too."

...

_"- Of course, we can't be certain of what exactly is happening. There have been a few witnesses making claims to possible violence and have given reports of shouting, but there can be no further confirmation. It appears that who exactly is inside - it is __definitely__ believed to be the representation of America - has given strict orders for anyone inside to _not_ make contact with the outside world in any way, shape or form. One could almost compare this to a hostage situation -"_

The channel changed.

"_- in all this? Where? I find it personally odd that we don't have one ourselves. All of this could have been avoided if we also had the privilege of having one too. So what does this mean for our country? If we don't have a -"_

Changed again.

_"No word from the American Government. They have no comment on any of the happenings in Canada currently, but they are neither refuting or confirming that the representation of the United States of America is currently in the nation Capitol of Canada. What does this mean exactly? We have a leading expert in the relationship between nation__s__ and -"_

The radio was flicked off.

Fingers glanced off of a table, idly drumming a tuneless melody for a moment more while the listener paused in his thoughts.

It was just very amusing. So very amusing. He knew that something like this was eventually going to happen, and he couldn't contain his glee at being correct about the situation. He knew it. One of them had done something so stupid and now it was going to all blow up in everyone's faces.

Ah, he had to correct himself. Everyone's faces _but his_. Because, of course, Russia hadn't done anything wrong whatsoever. He merely gave Canada the warning he deserved. Matthew was no longer a true nation. He was weak. Repulsive. He _let_ this happen. He let all of this fall around his ears and now he was _paying_ for it.

How humourous the current situation was though! Ivan mused to himself of what America could have possibly done to cause the bedlam to happen. What could have been going through his head? The news reports were nothing remotely helpful in telling Ivan any of the specifics. They just repeated the same story of seeing America crash into the Liaison Offices before being followed by England and _Germany_ of all people.

Germany? Is that what they did when he left? Had they so sourly needed someone big and strong with them that they replaced _his_ presence with _Germany_? It was absolutely disgusting.

But somehow oh-so very amusing…

Russia leaned back casually, one hand remaining on the table-top and drumming very softly to his thoughts.

"Stupid, weak, pathetic Matvey. If you only became one with Russia, then this never would have happened. Though... I do not wish to catch your sickness now." He said it all to the absolute emptiness of the room.

He sat there for a moment, gleeful at the situation, but still very curious of how it was going to pan out. What did the stupid America try to do? What were England and Germany doing there exactly? Where was Canada in all this?

Was Matthew going to _die_?

He didn't muse further as at that moment; a cold chill blew across his bare neck. His anger snapped in a cold aura. Ivan's hand hit the table, fist clenched. He didn't _care_ what happened.

As long as everyone else left him alone and _out_ of it-

It was his final thought before he slammed the window shut.

...

"... So... let me get this fucking - ow - straight. You're gunna have _him_ pr-pretend - _ow_ - to h-have 'planned' this - OW - the whole time?" Prussia asked, his voice was slurred and marred by his mangled jaw, the pain was none-too-pleasant.

Germany knelt beside him, pressing one of the remaining soft icepacks to his brother's face. "Ja. That is the plan, Bruder."

"Brüderchen," Gilbert said, looking at his brother flatly and trying to just talk without moving his teeth. "... This... is... - ow - _stupid_!"

"It is the only plan that we have, Gilbert," Ludwig informed him, adjusting the icepack to better numb the injured jaw. "And do you think you are going to be able to walk? We will be able to disguise your appearance well enough. But we need you to be able to get to one of the cars convincingly..."

"Of c-course! I'm _awesom_ - god fucking _dammit_ that hurts!"

Germany sighed sympathetically and turned his head to the two nations standing behind them. "Are you ready?"

America nodded blankly, England looked unsure.

Alfred paused for a second, then reached in his pocket and pulled out something, throwing it at Germany to catch.

"A scarf?" Germany inquired after catching it, turning the red-knit scarf over in his hands. "Why are you-"

"To cover him up. His face. People won't notice his bruises so much if he's already wearing _red_," Alfred said simply. He spoke again quickly before Prussia refuted in disgust, "And it's not _mine_, by the way. It's Mattie's. I didn't remembered I still had it in my coat till now. So treat it nice, 'kay? Or I'll kick your ass."

England gave Alfred a very scathing and warning look. Germany ignored America's comment for the most part, and Gilbert - upon hearing who the scarf's owner really was - took it without question and started wrapping it around his neck.

"Red goes w-with my awesome eyes anyway!" he exclaimed, muffled by injury and wool.

"Right," England started while Gilbert was being bundled up by his brother, a hood being tugged over his head so all that remained between it and the scarf was a nose and two red eyes. "... right... So... We're going to go out there very soon."

Germany nodded, standing from his kneeling position, satisfied that Prussia was upright and willing to go through with it.

"... Alfred," Arthur said, turning to his son. "Now. You understand what you have to do then, right? You completely understand what you have to do?"

Alfred nodded. "Yeah. I completely understand. I can _definitely_ do this."

"Yer gun' haf to," Gilbert half-slurred from behind his coverings. "M'gunna f'k you 'p otherwise."

America ignored this, turning away from them. "I... I was thinking that I will try to lead them over there," he strode to the window and pointed across the way. "There's a building over there, and if I get everyone to go over there, then the rest of you can sort of pile out... You guys might not have to get involved at all."

"I don't _care_ where you go, Alfred, as long as we can get out of here and to Matthew before he gets here. This place is giving me the willies and I don't like it."

Germany frowned. As much has he had been focusing on other things, the buildings also bothered him somewhat. It wasn't obvious to him, but there was an instinctually _disturbing_ feeling that radiated from the buildings when he focused hard enough. It made him want to leave.

Pushing that thought aside, Germany opened the door. "Alright then, Jones. I think you best make good on your plan now. Waiting now will only cause more issues. And remember: We are going to try to look like civilians. Try to keep our names out of it as best you can, and it could lighten the blow against Williams considerably in the long-run."

"Got it."

"We will be leaving ten or so minutes _after_ we see you've distracted them, so try to keep their attentions long enough till we give you a signal," Ludwig gestured with his cell phone to imply where the signal was coming from. "Do you understand?"

"Yes. We've gone over this a million times. So yes. I understand completely."

Germany nodded to England, then stepped aside from the door. "... Good luck."

...

Matthew breathed, chest pained and heaving. He hadn't meant to. He hadn't meant to at all! But he had fallen asleep in his car when he pulled aside for a few minutes to regain his bearing and nerves. Kumajirou didn't so much as _try_ to wake him up either. So he had fallen asleep and now it was already morning. Though very _early_ morning, but more hours passed than he wanted and he had no idea what sort of horrible things could have happened during his rest.

He was running.

Matthew knew instinctively where his Liaison Offices were. If he really wanted to, and if he was able, he could _walk_ to them with no map, no compass, from some remote small town in British Columbia.

But finding them wasn't the issue; it was getting there _in time_.

Canada felt the rise and fall of _something_ swimming through the base of his stomach and chest. Something was going to happen, and he could almost feel the flood of attention shifting from one point to another. Something had changed, and he knew he was too late to stop it.

It scared him; though he didn't know what it was. The closer he got to the offices, the tighter the feeling in his chest became; and the closer he got, the more he felt that there was going to be something there that he will _not _ like to see. Something that he was going to hate. Something painful.

But he kept running, Kumajirou bouncing after him in a four-legged gallop as the massive Parliament Buildings came into view.

It struck him immediately as odd that there were large chain-link fences around the whole of the buildings. Normally it was wide and open, people were able to walk on the grass to get to the buildings, if they pleased, but now it was impossible. That thought was pushed from Canada's mind immediately as he knew where an entrance was.

He jogged, the painful tightness in his chest increasing as he streaked past news vehicles and an overdose of cars that plugged up the streets and parking lot. There were so many people! Just what _exactly_ did Alfred try to do? What had he done to cause the media to get so involved?

He shouldn't have been surprised, he should have expected the media to be there - and he _knew_ they were there - but just _what_ _exactly_ had Alfred done to keep a constant and steady stream of people going through the only remaining entrances?

He slowed to a stop, panting for breath, putting a hand on one of the fence poles of the chain-links as he gulped for air. Looking up, he was hit with shock when he saw police tape and temporary fences put up around the entrances.

"What?" Matthew breathed. "How am I supposed to get _in there_?"

He could glimpse, just barely glimpse, a crowd of people on the inside, and saw flashes of cameras and the glares of hundreds of tiny screens of cellular phones or other recording devices through the thin flicker of morning snow.

"Damnit," Canada muttered under his breath. "Damnit..."

Looking around himself desperately, and glad to see there were no people, he grabbed the edge of a wooden crate that was in front of a stack of others - they were covering one of the openings in the fence - and began to physically drag it across wet morning-dewed grass.

"Maybe you should wait here," Kumajirou said, pushing the crate on the other end with the top of his head. "Maybe you should wait for the others."

Matthew laughed dryly, which turned into a cough. "And... what? Wait for the worst to happen? Can you see all those people? Something is going on, and I have to stop it. Whatever it is. I don't know what Alfred is _doing_, but I have to protect my government and my citizens."

"... You don't have to go in there. You can wait here." Kumajirou said, though he was still helping Canada, pretty much aware that he was stubbornly going to not listen and go anyway.

Canada climbed onto the crate, teetering, feeling satisfied at the height it gave him and gripped onto the links of the fence. "I'm sorry, Kuma, but I have to go. I _have to_."

"... I know."

Matthew watched in surprise as Kumajirou - with a wiggle of his bottom - heaved a jump, latched onto the fence, and scrambled up and over the edge of it. With a swift and graceful 'plonk' the polar bear was over on the other side. Dusting himself off carefully, Kumajirou looked up at his owner.

Canada grinned, snuffing air out of his nose in amusement, and began to try to pull himself upwards.

It was _much_ harder than it should have been.

It was only then that he realised he had a great feeling of numbness in his wrist - which he only _just_ recalled was fractured or broken - and his arms felt shaky and weak right down to the very joints. But he pressed on, shoving the tips of his boots into each of the gaps on the chain-link and heaving himself upwards.

It took some doing, but Matthew found himself at the top of the fence, and he clung there, suddenly very uncertain.

"... I... I didn't th... think how to get down..."

He looked warily at the ground below, and the lack of anything soft for him to land on.

"Just be slow and careful," Kumajirou advised. "Don't land on me," he added, stepping back warily from the precarious Canadian.

Matthew did just that; gripping as hard as he could, he swung his legs over the top, and began his descent down the other side, his fingers growing sore and stiff with the effort of holding up his weight, however light he might have been.

He only had a foot or two to go when his grip failed him, and not realising he was falling until he was already halfway to the ground, he hit pavement with a harsh 'thump', the wind knocked straight from his lungs in one fell swoop.

Canada curled up and gasped for air, trying to fill his lungs with much-needed oxygen, his head spinning violently.

"O-...O... Okay..." Matthew swallowed after a minute, wincing at identical long scrapes along his forearms where his coat had been pushed up in the fall. "T... that was a _bit _st-stupid..."

Satisfied that Canada was not hurt - aside from being temporarily winded and scraped - Kumajirou answered with, "... I'm not going to even respond to that."

Canada shuffled to his feet once he could breathe properly enough, steadying himself against the fence with a loose grip. Now he had to have a sort of plan. He got in, but what was he going to do now?

He knew that Kumajirou was going to keep on suggesting that he just wait for someone to show up and take him home. He knew that Kumajirou was going to say that England or Germany or Prussia or _whoever_ was going to come and get him and all would be well.

But he had gotten that far; and if he had gotten that far, then Canada wasn't going to give up when he was so close. He was _so close_. So close that he could hear the sounds of loud incredulous speech from plethora of people that were crowded around one of the side buildings.

Steadying himself again, Matthew broke off from the chain link fence and started on his way towards the building in question.

The crowd almost reminded him of a demonstration or a protest. As he got closer, he could see that people - employees, civilians and news reporters - were congregated around one of the lesser buildings, all staring up at some sort of spectacle that was going on.

Just what _was _going on? He was expecting America to go for one of the main offices. Alfred wasn't the kind of guy to half-ass anything, and Canada was pretty sure that his brother was going to go straight towards the head of the Liaison Offices, or anyone associated with them directly. He'd go after something like _that_, not a side building of which Matthew recognised as being the sub-department that dealt with many trivial organisational issues.

He stepped closer, arms - scrapes already having stopped bleeding - wrapped around himself as he approached slowly.

He didn't notice and didn't question some of the equipment that were scattered in the parking lots - great big bulldozers and other such machinery. He paid them no mind as he rounded the corner and stepped into the outskirts of the crowd.

Nobody noticed him as more than just him filtered into the ground, joining to view what was going on.

It was then when Matthew saw him. He saw Alfred. Alfred was standing on top of the steps that led up to the office building and was looking down at all the people below. He was _saying_ something, but Canada couldn't hear what.

Just what was he doing! First he went rampaging to the buildings, and now he was _plainly_ revealing himself?

A twist of _something_ tugged at his insides and Matthew recoiled, taking in a heavy gasp. He stepped closer upon recovery, arm firmly around his middle, and strained to hear what he was saying.

But he couldn't. The incredulous murmur of the crowd was too loud, and he could only pick up on sparing segments of, "- totally thought it was -" and "- just testing -" and "- kind of forgot -".

"Testing?" Matthew muttered. "Testing _what_?"

Someone in the crowd heard him and turned. "Just got here, eh?" the older man said, turning to Canada, not the faintest note of recognition on his face, "I just got here m'self! I was wondering what all the hullabaloo was going on here! So I said to my wife I came here to check it out, see."

Canada nodded absently. "Did you hear what he was... saying?" Matthew asked. "What's going on?"

"You haven't been listening to the news, eh? Well. He came here, see, last night. And we hear that the representative of _America himself_ comes a-runnin' in like he was the want to kill. Of course, the news is all over it straight away. But it's so all-over-the-place, so it got really hard to say _what_ was goin' on," he explained. "But he just came out now! Says that he was doing a security check for his 'brother nation' and that he was being a 'hero'. Isn't that amazing!" The older man said, incredulously. "I always thought that Americans astounded me with what they did, but this _America_ fellow," he gestured with his cane, "Is right up there with the weirdoes!"

Matthew only listened to half of what the man said. A security check? Why was Alfred running a security check?

He thanked the man with a swift nod and pushed past him, squirming between people and trying to slither closer to America.

Again, nobody paid him much mind or attention. No double-takes as he worked his way through the crowd and closer to Alfred.

"- So yeah! I didn't mean to _scare_ you! But I was just... testing! Yeah! I mean... look at all the stuff that's been going on! I was just curious! I mean, we share the longest border in the word! I wanted to be sure that you all were safe from... negative stuff. Right?"

What _was_ he going on about?

It didn't make any sense. He was pretty sure that America had been on a mission of divine retribution and wanted to attack every member of Canada's parliament till he got _explanations_. Not do security checks and talk about it while standing at the top of the stairs of a random side-office.

A reporter spoke out loudly over the speech of the crowd, cutting clearly through the ambient noise and reaching to Alfred. "Why did you decide to do it here? Why not the actual capital buildings? Why at this parliamentary sector that has been scheduled for demolition within the next week?"

America faltered, Matthew gagged.

_Demolition_?

Alfred's face had gone a strange shade of white and he continued speaking, voice now wavering beyond the absolutely fake smile. "W-why? I... er... well... I thought that this might cause a _bit_ of an uproar if... uh... people... questioned it... so... u-uh...t... this was... a... test... run?" He ended it with a very unconvincing tone, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Canada's ears rang and he heard nought of a word of what Alfred had to say. He stood there, horrified. _Demolition_. Surely, they were just joking. They weren't going to do _any_ sort of demolition there, were they?

He staggered, pressing his hand to his stomach painfully.

What was going on? Why didn't he know about this? Were they moving offices? Was that what was going on? Were they moving the buildings? Perhaps there was something with them? Why were they being _demolished_?

Demolished...

The word rang through his ears.

Unknowingly, he was stepping back out of the crowd, and away from his white-faced brother who was now feebly trying to explain _something, _but was being cut-off by reporters now demanding why his arm was in a sling. Canada didn't notice any of it. All he was aware of were the word 'scheduled for demolition' repeating through his head.

What was...

Why didn't he...

Ears ringing, Canada now outside the crowd, he retreated backward until he slammed into the wall behind him.

What? What was going on? What? Demolished? Surely he heard that wrong; but the twist in his stomach told him that it was _right_. Now that he was there, he could feel the _emptiness_ that the buildings possessed, feel that they were indeed going to be demolished…

One by one. All of them.

Matthew wheezed, his breath constricting as air came harder to him. He all but forgot Kumajirou was there, who knocked his head gently against Canada's legs as he struggled for breaths.

No... No...

"Get a hold... of... yourself," he breathed between closed teeth. "Get... a... hold of yourself..."

He swallowed a few times, forcing deep and shuddering breaths.

He had to do something. This was why he came, right? To do something? He couldn't just stand around and pretend that nothing was going on. He couldn't just stand idly by and _pretend_ that he didn't hear what he just heard. Canada couldn't deny the acidic feeling at the base of his stomach that rose at the mention of the news.

He had to do something.

But what?

He glanced around, his hand pressed to his chest as he heaved heavy breaths, and caught sight of the main building. It didn't seem to have the same empty, hollow feeling that the building Matthew leant upon had.

He shoved himself off the wall roughly, staggering, and sweeping past a concerned Kumajirou, he stepped off and away from the still-busied crowd, who didn't notice the young man in the slightest.

His breaths continued being shallow and ragged as he pressed forward. With absolute determination, and with a ray of hope he approached the impressive-looking building that he used to frequent what felt like oh-so-long ago. Matthew was going to demand answers. He wanted answers. He wanted to know what was going on.

A flood of questions that he wanted to ask - demand - were already being flowing through his mind. What was going on? Why were the buildings being demolished? What did Alfred do? Why wasn't he getting paperwork anymore? What did the Prime Minister phone him about before? Why didn't he get phoned back? Why did they get rid of the line connecting them? Why was he being ignored and shafted whenever he had tried to phone before? _What was going on_?

These and many more questions rose to his mind as he shoved the doors open with great effort.

The building had a strange... empty feeling.

It didn't feel dead and lifeless as the other did, but there was a certain feeling of loneliness as he walked inside. The sounds of his footsteps only emphasised this as they echoed against the hard marble floor.

No longer were the milling of office workers 'to and fro'ing between offices. No longer did he see familiar faces that greeted him pleasantly some time ago when he still used to visit. How long had it been since he was last there? A year? Two? Three? Ten? He wasn't sure anymore; time felt distorted.

Staggering, he made it to the front desk, leaning on the high-counter when he made it there, breathing hard.

There was no receptionist.

"... You should leave," Kumajirou said to his right, standing on his hind legs, paw on his back. "You should get out of here."

"No..." Canada said. "No... I have to... find out... what's... going on..."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"It's _fine_. S-shut _up_ Kuma," Matthew pressed.

His bear fell silent.

Canada breathed, heaving pained breaths, looking left and right, trying to catch sight of another human being. He was sure there were people there, he was sure there were people still _in the offices_. Or was he mistaken about that too? Was he just unable to read what was going on anymore? Was he just assuming it was all alright like he had before, when _clearly_, if they were slated for demolition...

A warm uncomfortable feeling tingled in his sinus and he sniffed before pressing the back of his hand on his nose. "Augh... not now..."

Drawing back his hand, he looked at the blood was there, before pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers as a couple of soft 'plicks' of arrant blood dripped onto the countertop.

"D-dammit..."

"You should sit do-"

"_Be quiet_."

Canada pushed away from the table, wiping away flecks of red with his other hand, leaving small smears. His nosebleed wasn't that bad, he told himself. It was just a dribble. Besides, he had far more important things to attend to -

"... _MATTHEW?"_

He whirled around, seeing the figures of England, Germany and what seemed to be Prussia striding out of one of the elevators.

They all stood dumbly still for a second. Gilbert had been partially supported by his brother, but had stood straight upon sight of Matthew. Germany was staring forward and England had such an amazing face of shock, it near looked like he had fainted with his eyes wide open.

Canada's hand dropped to his side, absolutely stunned, letting his nose freely ooze. "D... dad... what...?"

The gap between him and England disappeared in milliseconds as Arthur tore down the hallway and embraced his son.

"Oh-thank-god! Oh-thank-god!"

"D-dad... W-"

"_I've been so worried_. I've been ripe with anxiety! Once I heard that you had _gone_ I thought I was going to di-... Good lord! Your nose!"

A handkerchief firmly pinched his nose as Germany and Prussia approached as well.

"I was beside myself with worry Matthew! Don't you ever do that again!" Arthur was almost hysterical. "I thought you may have collapsed! Fainted in the street! When you were _driving_! I thought maybe you managed to accidentally launch yourself off a bridge or into a ditch and -" A loud gasp of air cut off his statement and England continued. "Thank _god_ you're okay. Oh-thank-god."

Canada was feeling his knees give way, and Arthur had to be encouraged to let go as so Germany could guide Matthew to one of the waiting couches before he buckled.

England was right beside him, fussing. "We almost _left_. We were on our way down! We saw that Alfred had distracted everyone and- There you were! You were right there! I thought we'd have to look _everywhere_ for you! I was already listening to news reports about accidents - just in case - and there was already a very nasty one that happened just a few streets awa- ... What did you _do _to yourself! Your arms are scraped and bruised!"

"_Kirkland_," Germany cut off any more of England's worried speech. "Enough. Let Williams speak."

"... R... right. Right. Of course. I... I apologise Matthew, It's just..." He spoke quickly, "I was _really worried_."

Canada had to laugh. It might've been inappropriate, but he gave a short snort of air between his wheezing breaths, somehow... appreciating England in his flustered glory.

"S'okay... I... I'm really sorry... but... I had to..."

Germany knelt down, looking at Matthew seriously before addressing him. "Williams. If there is anything wrong, you need to tell us right now."

Matthew considered telling them outright about the buildings, about the fact they were being slated for demolition, about the fact that he was feeling numb and shaky and he no longer wanted to _be there_ despite his earlier vicious want for answers.

But he didn't do any of those things. Instead, he swallowed, nodded and said, "Y... yes... b... but... Not here..."

His want to approach whoever was responsible had deflated upon his father's embrace. Now he wanted nothing more than curl up in his room for a while and _think_ about it before he did anything. He didn't want to look at anyone in the offices.

"I... I'll explain... later... I.. I want to leave..."

Ludwig nodded, standing.

"Of course Matthew. Of course. We'll get you to one of the cars and - where did you park _your_ car? I presume you took a car..."

"It's... nearby..."

"We will worry about it later," Germany said. He was already standing by the doorway, looking between slats of the blinds. "We need to hurry up. Jones is going to soon 'make a break for it' and we do not want to be left here when he does."

"... Right." Arthur nodded. He stood slowly, holding onto Matthew and helping to bring him to a standing position. "... Can you walk?"

Canada nodded. "Y... yeah."

Wrapping an arm around his shoulder, England began to guide his son, letting Matthew continue pinching his own nose against a still-thankfully-light nosebleed.

With an apprehensive breath, Germany pushed open the front doors, and ushered Arthur and Matthew out, followed by Gilbert, then himself, Kumajirou trotting past him to walk with Canada. He closed the doors as quietly as he could, and gestured for them to leave around a back entrance.

"They've... closed up the entrances in the fences," Canada explained. "Nobody can get in or out... I... I had to climb over the fence."

"It must have been done in the middle of the night by the RCMP; for security purposes."

"Is that where you got those nasty scrapes?" England chastised. "I'm going to have to check you in the car to be sure you haven't done anything else to yourself."

It was Gilbert who spoke in responses to the dilemma, his speech strange since he was keeping his teeth shut to do so. "Dude... We can just... get through the barriers. We need'ta get outta here - ow - and we... -ow- ...have our cars around _that_ way. We c-can't risk -ow- any chances!"

"Gilbert wha-"

"Later, Birdie."

Germany nodded. "It's the best plan. Let's continue."

As they walked towards one of the gaps in the fence (that one blocked with roughly-stacked cinderblocks), Matthew stared back, unable to see past the large building, but knowing that his brother was still talking to the people there.

He felt a twang of guilt, or upset. They were leaving without Alfred? Were they? As angry as he was with America, and as affronted and _violated _as he may have felt with his actions, Matthew didn't want to leave him behind.

He may have deserved some trouble... but being stuck there...?

England's warm hand on his shoulder squeezed him gently from those thoughts. "Come on now, lad," Arthur encouraged. "Everything will be alright in the end. How's your nose...?"

"... Alright..." he lied behind the dampening cloth, and he tried his damndest to pay no attention to the demolition machinery he had ignored only _minutes_ before.

Matthew had a very bad feeling that it definitely wasn't over yet.

* * *

**Author's Note : **This chapter was written fairly quickly and I feel VERY good about it. I enjoyed this chapter very much, and while it isn't OMG EXTREME like other chapters, it was very necessary. More things are coming into play, and while it seems to have 'rested', we all have to remember that Alfred still has to get out of there… and that Mattie isn't exactly all peaches and cream at the moment…

… ah well.

I got another fanart too! Awesome! Thank my awesome beta for that and for awesomely betaing. Oh yes.

… and it seems like Russia has appeared again, da? I knew he wasn't going to be gone forever… kolkolkol

* * *

**Chapter 21**** Preview : **America makes a break for it. A revelation about Matthew comes crashing down around his ears violently, and a very certain Russian is very displeased by something… Basically, ohhh shit, SHIT and…. Ohgodohgod.

* * *

Thanks for Reading! **PLEASE READ AND REVIEW**! You've all already been so awesome and gave me **nearly 600** reviews! This astounds me! So happy! FOR THIS CHAPTER, I AM GOING TO ATTEMPT TO RESPOND TO REVIEWS. I SHALL ATTEMPT THIS. YES. BECAUSE YOU ARE ALL AWESOME.

So **continue **to review. Please. Reviews help me understand what you all are getting from it, and help me improve it so YOU can enjoy it better. It all comes around in the end, and feedback helps you get what you want.

Thanks!


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